


travels in the fictorium

by raffinit



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, Warcraft III, World of Warcraft
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, F/F, I said I would do this and I finally did, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Tumblr Ask Box Fic, and then never again, but only in Chapter 19
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-16 12:48:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 27,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28956690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raffinit/pseuds/raffinit
Summary: A compilation of Sylvaina Tumblr prompts that I said I would post and finally got around to doing it.
Relationships: Jaina Proudmoore/Sylvanas Windrunner
Comments: 82
Kudos: 395





	1. settled into their marriage for a few years and jaina is feeling self conscious about her buxomness and Sylvanas will not allow it.

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: settled into their marriage for a few years and Jaina is feeling self conscious about her buxomness and Sylvanas will not allow it.

Even as a Kul Tiran, Jaina was no stranger to the politics of body image. It came with the territory; as the only daughter of Daelin Proudmoore, as betrothed to Arthas, as archmage of the Kirin Tor. As Lord Admiral of Kul Tiras.

Criticism came in all shapes and sizes for all sorts of reasons. Some thought her too tall; some too short. Some thought her built too slender and petite — for she was of pure Kul Tiran blood, was she not? Some thought her freckles an eyesore; others coveted them.

As time passed, however, and by majority, many simply thought her too…much.

Too broad in the shoulders. Too solidly built. Too voluptuous.

Such utterances rarely ever came to light before her marriage to Sylvanas, and rarely did they ever have much impact on her. She had endured too much to let gossip folk and vicious whispers get the best of her.

She supposed, side-by-side, the comparisons were just unavoidable.

Though she was impressive in height, Sylvanas towered over her. Though she was broad in the shoulders, Sylvanas was broader. Roped in muscle and built from years of wielding a bow not many others could even think to draw tight.

She knew she was beautiful, in some sense. She had her fair share of suitors in her time.

Still, the uncertainties crept into the periphery of her mind, insidious and resonating.

One night, before bed, she regarded herself in the full-length mirror of their chambers. The nightgown she wore did a fair job of accentuating the curvature of her figure; in a way she knew all too well that Sylvanas certainly enjoyed.

But in that moment, all she could think about was the flare of her hips. The fullness of her breasts. The thickness of her arms.

From the periphery of her vision, Sylvanas emerged, materialising behind her with a cool, smooth waft of arcane and the familiar scent of cold steel and flowers.

One broad hand slipped between her arm and waist, spreading across the fabric of her nightgown and splaying over her belly. Sylvanas pressed in close behind her, nuzzling into her hair.

“What troubles you so, my love?” Sylvanas murmured, and Jaina felt her thumb begin to stroke in idle circles. “You’ve been standing here for a while.”

Jaina sighed and leaned back into her wife’s embrace, savouring Sylvanas’ affections even as she continued frowning at her reflection.

“Do you think I’m…too much?” she mumbled. “Too…curvy? Too thick?”

Sylvanas’ ear flicked slightly in their reflection. One burning red eye peered at her curiously in the mirror. The reply she received came with a startling amount of severity and low, contained anger. “Who has been whispering such vile things to you? I will have their tongue torn out of their skull.”

Jaina winced at the vivid imagery and laid a soothing hand over the arm banded around her waist. “No one said anything to me. I just wonder sometimes.”

Sylvanas’ tone softened significantly, as her touches became even gentler and yet somehow more possessive. “Why would you wonder such things, Jaina? Have I done something to cause this?”

“No, no.” She shook her head quickly. “It’s just —” she gestured rather helplessly at their reflection. “We’re quite contradictory to look at.”

“Complementary,” Sylvanas corrected her, peering into the mirror as well with an unreadable, if haughty expression. “You and I go quite well together, I think.”

“You’re tall.”

“As are you.”

“But I’m broad,” she persisted. “Elves are built long and lean. Waif-like.”

Sylvanas made a derisive noise in her throat. “Radical racial purity talk from both humans and elves. I’m not a waif. My rangers aren’t waifs. You might as well slap Lor'themar across the face.”

Jaina sighed. They swayed in place a bit, moving against the solid presence of Sylvanas behind her as they continued staring into the mirror.

With a kiss pressed into her hair, Sylvanas’ hold tightened around her, squeezing just enough for her to huff.

“ _Dalah'surfal_ ,” Sylvanas hummed, leaning in to pepper the side of her face with kisses. “My love. You’re beautiful. Effervescent. Breathtaking. I love you exactly as you are; and I will love you in every shape, size, and form.”

The hands around her came up to palm her hips, sliding across her waist and thighs in a way that made the most delicious frisson ride up her spine.

“Even if I were hideous? Three times my size? With no teeth and warts on my face?”

“Even if you were an Abomination,” Sylvanas promised, boldly venturing lower until she could mouth and kiss Jaina’s neck. “Even if you invite Greymane to tea every day for the rest of your life.”

Jaina giggled and squirmed until she could turn around, embracing Sylvanas’ shoulders with her own arms. Tilting up on her toes, she grinned when they were nose-to-nose. “Tides, you really do love me, don’t you.”

“I wouldn’t suffer Greymane for anyone else.”


	2. Regency AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regency AU - Person A inheriting Person B’s father’s estate and the only way to keep Person B’s family out of the poor house is for Person B to marry Person A.

It was as bleak a day as one would expect for a funeral. Upon the shores, they gathered; the hanging clouds overhead wept as much as her mother, who clung to her arm with pallid fingers and eyes rimmed red. Her own eyes ached viciously with what precious little tears she had shed during the service, for she was a Proudmoore, and Proudmoores carried themselves with the dignity expected of their station.

She was a Proudmoore. One of the last few now.

The priest finished the rites; her mother detached from her side and reached for the torch held in his hand.

The torch flickered and flared as a wild gust of wind came with the tides, but the straw bedding lit. The fire rose into a roaring blanket heat in moments, and her father’s men heaved the boat from the shore. By the time the boat had sailed towards the horizon, it was nothing more than flames.

In the distance somewhere, the church bell tolled.

\-----

That evening, a storm swept onto the shore with the tides. The darkened sky split open with a violence that shook the windows on their panes and rattled all that moved. The servants and maids scurried through the halls like the frenzied nest of rats from the larder, armed with candlesticks and oil lamps as they clamoured among themselves to nail down windows and shutters.

She sat with her mother by the hearth of the study, the fire blazing amidst great splits of wood. The smell of the sea crept in through the seams of the windows and the cracks of the doors; earth and brine and embers together. She sat and sipped on a toddy, warm between her cradled hands as she stared into the dancing flames.

She should have known, truly; what the storm would have wrought. As the servants bustled and shouted, and more feet thundered down the hallways to the main doors. She looked up at the doorway, apprehension curled tight like a boulder in her belly as the doors to the study creaked open.

“Deepest apologies, my lady,” their butler said, bowing low. “I do not mean to intrude. But the Lord Greymane, Esquire, has come.”

“Send him in,” her mother said wearily. “Bring him a towel, and perhaps a hot toddy the same. Quickly now; before the storm takes him as well.”

She frowned, and the warmth of liquor loosened her tongue to speak. “Can’t he leave us to grief but for a day? Surely the will can wait.”

“Jaina,” her mother chided. “Such things cannot wait for even the earth to settle on most graves. It cannot wait for your father’s body to turn to ash.” She watched her mother lean back into the chair and drink, watched the grief manifest in shadows. “Your brothers are dead, and now your father. We are all we have left in this world, my darling girl. You and I alone.”

Jaina reached out and clung to her mother’s hand with the same desperation of a child frightened from its bed. “Mother —”

Lord Greymane appeared then, with the chill of the outdoors nipping at his heels. He shook the damp from his hair and brushed it from his coats as a servant girl came to him with a towel. “You must pardon me for such rudeness, Lady Katherine,” he said, with a look of deep contrition. “For my appearance and appearance. I would not have pressed the matter had I been given the choice.”

“Sit, Lord Greymane,” Katherine Proudmoore replied. “Warm yourself. We must speak.”

Lord Greymane warmed himself briskly by the fire, hands outstretched against the flames. “I shan’t dither on the matter; you must already have a notion of why I am here.”

“Yes,” replied her mother quietly. “The will.”

There was a grimness in his face that unsettled Jaina; she set her glass aside lest she tumble it from her hands. “Which brother did he leave it to, then?” she asked, though her mother’s reproach was clear in the look she received. “Let us be frank, Lord Greymane. You have been my father’s lawyer for many years. You are but family now. We are in the privacy of our home. Let’s not stand of propriety where it isn’t needed.”

Sighing, the Lord Greymane turned to her with a saddened look of fondness she often saw in her own father’s eyes. “‘Tis true; I cannot bring myself to keep this from you for longer. My dearest Katherine, my heart aches for you, and my mind rages. But it is as it has been signed — Proudmoore Estate has been sold.”

Katherine gasped, though the sound itself was swallowed by a ravenous thunder from beyond the walls. “S-sold —”

“If it would ease your mind to know that your lord husband has bequeathed a generous sum to support you and your daughter —”

She could not comprehend it. There were words still coming from her father's lawyer's mouth — for she could certainly see it moving still — but there was nought that she took to comprehension.

Jaina shook her head incredulously. “I don't understand. This land has been in our family for years!”

“The laws of perpetuity are as such, my lady. As it is, the new landlord has proof of purchase and surrender of the estate and all its worldly possessions therein —”

“Oh, Daelin,” her mother moaned. “How could you?”

“That can't be right. M-my brothers —”

“God rest their souls —”

“They wouldn't have allowed it!” She rose from her seat and stared at Lord Greymane with a wild, frenzied desire to throttle the man. Were she of perhaps a daughter of lower birth; were she perhaps a daughter of the village grocer, perhaps she might not have a need at all to throttle him.

But she was not. She was a Proudmoore.

Lord Greymane gave her a chastened shrug, peering at her mother. “Unfortunately, Lady Proudmoore, the decision was beyond their control. Proudmoore Estate was signed by perpetuity only to your father's line...from your great-grandfather. In light of which, the Proudmoore line can no longer hold these lands to their family name. Proudmoore Estate has exchanged hands.”

She swayed on her feet and sank down onto the chaise, clinging desperately to anything that would keep her afloat. “Who,” she whispered. “Who is the new master of our home?”

“...The Windrunners.”

\------

Amidst the weight of silence and storms, she spoke, no louder than a whisper. “What do we do?”

Katherine Proudmoore turned to look at her daughter, the seafoam of her eyes dim with grief. “What  _ can  _ we do?”

Lord Greymane reached for a stack of parchments tucked within a pocket of his coat. “I’m sure if we discuss this with Lord Windrunner, he would be amenable to having you as tenants —”

“ _ Tenants _ ?” Jaina cried. “In our own home? Preposterous!”

Sharply, Katherine said, “What would you have us do? Beg for our living in the slums? Die penniless with our family name buried at sea with your father?”

“How do I stop this?” she beseeched Greymane. “Surely there must be a way.”

Lord Greymane peered at her, shifting the weight on the balls of his feet with discomfort. “Well, there is, of course, marriage —”

She thrust out her chin defiantly. “Then I shall wed a Windrunner. If he be willing.”

“My lady —”

“I care not to whom I give my hand. Whether he be as old as the very earth this home stands, or whether he be crass and unkind and uncouth —”

“Jaina!” her mother cried.

She continued, no matter the tremble in her hands or the terror building in her spine. “I shall be a second wife — a third. A mistress. I care not. I shall bear him a hundred sons —”

“N-now —” Lord Greymane reached out a hand in the air between them. “That would be unnecessary —”

She met his gaze with a steely one, daring him to speak more. “So long as my family shall always have a place here.”

“It is a woman,” he blurted, and the room went still. “A daughter. Lord Windrunner bequeathed this land to his second daughter. His only heir worth the title now, with two daughters married.”

Her belligerence would not settle, no matter the shock. A woman would be easier to speak reason to, surely; and no doubt a woman of sound mind and logic, if this Windrunner is heir — “I would wed her regardless,” she said boldly. “I am my father’s last living child. I am, in God’s eyes if not the law’s, his only living heir. If she can inherit, then I shall do so the same. Whether it be by blood or by marriage.”

“You must surely understand the weight of your declarations,” Greymane murmured. “If I propose this, and she refuses —”

“She will not,” Jaina proclaimed. “I shall make it so.”


	3. "Don't worry, I would never touch you."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Don't worry, I would never touch you."

The rules and dynamics that governed their marriage were clear ones. Perhaps it would have been something more than just a necessary evil in another life. More than a compromise between their factions for the sake of peace. Perhaps they wouldn’t have needed a peace treaty at all. 

But like many things, Sylvanas saw no use in dwelling.

Of all the things she had expected out of the marriage, she certainly didn’t expect _kindness_.

Despite the expected bullheadedness and self-righteous indignation at times, Jaina was friendlier than she could have ever imagined. Wry and quick-witted with a quiet sort of bookishness in the late evenings.

Proudmoore was a tolerable spouse for what she was. Outside of her incessant need for books stacked high on every surface she saw, the multitudes of coffee cups scattered around her study, and the infuriating habit of _walking around in little more than her slip_ — the Lord Admiral was not the most terrible choice of a wife.

If only she’d wear more _clothes_ around Sylvanas.

Though they kept separate studies on opposite ends of the Keep, their private apartments were a shared one. It meant little to Sylvanas at first. Though they shared a bed, they did not touch — only sat some nights, each on their own end. Jaina with a brush in hand to tame the wildness of her mane and she with pen and parchment in hand. They talked of things beyond war room conversations; idle and stilted at first, with gradual ease the more time passed.

She needed no sleep; wanted no proximity between them in the first few months and years of their marriage. Jaina settled comfortably into the space in the meantime but she cared little. Humans had needs. Living beings had needs.

She did not.

Within their apartments, there was a larger, airier room meant for an adjoining living space. They furnished it as something close enough to a shared study and private library; broad desks and tall shelves pressed against the walls and plush chaises in front of the fireplace. It was where Jaina spent most of her time, and before long — inescapably, it seemed — so did Sylvanas.

What galled her the most about having a wife was the general state of undress Jaina seemed to enjoy parading around in front of her in. It didn’t seem malicious; not really. The Lord Admiral, when in the privacy and comfort of their chambers, was almost absent-minded. There were days she would walk into the living room and find Jaina sprawled out on the chaise, bare of her skirts and coat and boots. Unraveled down to her slip or nightgown made of linen that was far too sheer.

“I wonder sometimes if we shouldn’t hang a sock on the door,” she drawled.

Jaina looked up over the top of her book, leant back comfortably against one of the overstuffed pillows of the chaise. Her hair spread out over the pillow in a blanket of white and gold, unbound from its usual braid; a look Sylvanas was quickly becoming accustomed to seeing her with. “I’m allowed to dress how I like in the privacy of my own chambers.”

“ _Our_ chambers,” Sylvanas corrected her stiffly. “I imagined you being a little more... _conservative_ with your attire. Especially around me. Whatever will Greymane say?”

Rolling her eyes, Jaina replied dryly, “I didn’t think you cared so much about his opinions of you, Warchief.”

Sylvanas scowled. “I care that your _familiarity_ with me is unbecoming of a woman of your station.”

“We’re both women,” Jaina replied patiently. The patience annoyed her. “But if it makes you so uncomfortable, I’ll put on a robe.”

The thought of Jaina changing to accommodate her sensitivities made Sylvanas’ irritation flare all the more. Her desire for Jaina to be appropriately dressed was now at war with the loathsome thought of being coddled.

“I’m not _uncomfortable_ ,” she said, with an unfortunate undertone of petulance. “Wear what you like. Prance about naked for all I care.” 

Jaina dropped her book flat against her chest as she sat up to regard Sylvanas curiously. “I never thought you'd be so shy, Warchief.”

 _Shyness_ had very little to do with it, but the tone of her wife’s words was enough to rankle her nerves and boil her temper. “I’m not _shy_ —”

Jaina let out something like an incredulous, if confused laugh. “Then what is it?” she asked. “If you’re upset about something, I’d much rather you tell me instead of having to walk on eggshells around one another all the time. Was it a bad day?”

“Don’t make this about me,” Sylvanas replied indignantly. “This is about you.”

“What about me?”

“You’re _practically naked_.” Sylvanas wrinkled her nose mildly and gazed at Jaina over it. “The eggshells can stop after you stop prancing around in your linens. I can _see_ parts of you I rightly shouldn’t.”

“I didn’t think I’d have to be worried with _parading around_ , unless you mean to tell me I _should_ be worried for my virtue,” Jaina retorted snidely.

Sylvanas glared frigidly, her tone like shards of ice. “Don't worry. I would never touch you.”

There was a flickering look on Jaina’s face then; hurt that morphed into something like surprise, realisation, then a very shuttered look of self-consciousness. “Oh,” she said quietly, pulling the garment about herself, as if to shield from Sylvanas’ sight. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realise —”

A strange, coiling tension festered in her gut. “Proudmoore, wait —” She stepped forward, then caught herself, rocking back onto her heels as whatever it was that burned in her chest rose further into her throat.

“You should’ve said something sooner,” Jaina said coolly. “I wouldn’t have made you suffer through looking at me for so long.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” she said, and there was a strange, pleading sort of edge she couldn’t understand. “I spoke without thinking. You’re —” she floundered for a moment. “You’re —”

Jaina rose from the chaise, snatching up her coat and pulling it about her shoulders.

“You’re very beautiful,” Sylvanas blurted.

Jaina froze in place, staring at her dumbly.

Sylvanas found herself equally stunned in place. “I — I just mean —” She clenched her hands into fists and gritted her teeth. “You know what I mean.”

“I really don’t,” Jaina murmured, turning slowly to peer at her. “Sylvanas...do I make you uncomfortable because of how I _dress_ ...or do _I_ make you uncomfortable?”

“I’m not uncomfortable,” she insisted.

“That’s not an answer.” Jaina gave her a considering look, hedging carefully. “It’s not... _wrong_...if we were to be more friendly with each other. We’re married. We can touch each other without being disgusted with one another. Even if it’s just to hug.”

“...I am the Banshee Queen. I do not hug.”

“A pity.” The smile she gave Sylvanas was an indecipherable one, but the bright spark of coyness and challenge in her eyes were clear enough. “I suppose there are other touches we can explore.”


	4. The prophecy said, so Person A and Person B are to be hitched!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: The prophecy said, so Person A and Person B are to be hitched!

The first time Jaina ever caught wind of the prophecy was as a child; barely into her tweens, poring over dusty tomes in the highest shelves of the library. Books that most had forgotten even existed except for the librarians who were about as old and dusty as the books themselves. Jaina rather enjoyed spending time in the library. If not for the quiet, yellowy warmth it gave her, then for the stories Old Ned would tell her.

“There was a prophecy,” he said one day, tome spread open in his lap. He pointed one weathered finger at an image Jaina could barely make out; carefully etched in inks over parchment, faded over time and wear. An outline of the sun and the moon, the land and the sea. A tree outlined in flames and a throne of ice. “Eons old; some say older than time itself. A warrior —” Old Ned pointed to another picture, a figure in black ink whose edges frayed with time into a deep maroon and purple. Its upturned face smudged with age as if black tears ran freely from it. “— destined for Death. But Risen again from his grave with vengeance in his heart to burn the living to ashes with him.”

“How cruel,” Jaina remembered saying. “How heartless.”

Old Ned smiled at her patiently and gestured to her chest. “It’s always a matter of heart, my girl. See here —” He led her eyes down to the picture directly across the one of the warrior; a frozen throne and the warrior standing before it, beside another figure, unidentifiable.

She peered at it curiously. “Who is that?”

“No one knows. The prophecy spoke of another; a master of the elements. Someone with a lion heart strong enough to tame the wild fire of the warrior. She gave her heart to him and they ruled the land together, in peace, for ages to come.”

“But —”

The sound of the library doors creaking open made them both look up abruptly.

“There you are,” Jaina’s mother huffed. “Come along for your lessons, dear. Leave poor Old Ned in peace.”

Old Ned chuckled, shutting the tome as he rose on slow, aching feet. “No harm done, m’lady. The young Lady Proudmoore is always welcome here.”

“I want to hear more about the prophecy,” she begged, but Old Ned had simply pet her hair and sent her away.

“Another time,” he promised her. “Another day.”

When she asked her mother of it, Katherine scoffed. “It’s nothing more than fairy tales, dear. Children’s stories. Let it out of your mind.”

Jaina frowned, but the thought was fleeting in her youth at the prospect of magic lessons.

\--------

The next time she heard of the prophecy was in passing; a derogatory remark made during a lesson in Dalaran. Second-year students in a cluster in the back of the class. “Pah,” the ringleader said. “Prophecies are nothing more than fantasies. Fairy tales people tell themselves to make themselves feel important.”

Jaina rolled her eyes and continued reading. They were meant to transcribe the Old Language; not whinge about it. The syntax was convoluted, but its grammar was similar enough to her encounters with the Elven languages for her to piece it together. “The pronouns are all wrong,” she told the archmage. “This translation for the words aren’t gender specific. Even modern Thalassian and Elvish use neutral pronouns.”

The archmage peered at the book over her shoulder. “So it would appear. Translations aren’t always meant to be taken literally, Lady Proudmoore. Especially of such ancient tongues. The point of the exercise is to extract meaning, not nitpick.”

There was a snicker from the back of the class, and Jaina gave them all a withering glare.

“It’s wrong,” she said stoutly, looking the archmage in the eye. “The language is wrong. I can’t extract meaning if it’s telling me the wrong things.”

She earned two hours of detention with the archmage that day for her efforts. It was soon lost to the rest of her memories of Dalaran when the Scourge swept across the land.

\-------

The last and most prominent time the prophecy came to light was late in the evening. When the day swept away into twilight and the stars scattered across the sky in a blanket murky light. It came at the hands of Thalyssra of all people — encased within a tome she had a distant memory of encountering.

“Forgive me for disturbing you so late in the evening,” Thalyssra murmured. There was a strange, pressing sense of urgency to her that prickled the nerves in Jaina’s spine. “But I had to show this to you.”

She brandished the tome, laying it open on Jaina’s desk until it came upon a page with two images. The warrior and the throne.

Thalyssra pointed at the figure beside the warrior, though her eyes were staring intently at Jaina. “That’s you.”

Jaina blinked. “What?”

“That’s _you_ ,” Thalyssra repeated, with rising excitement. “I remembered many years ago; centuries past when this prophecy was told. A warrior raised from the dead, vengeance in their heart — a master of the elements who could heal it —”

“That’s ridiculous,” she sputtered, reaching out to shut the tome. “Utter nonsense! Prophecies are just fairy tales, Thalyssra. Old wives’ tales.”

The night elf gestured towards portions of the book, flipping between pages eagerly. “Look, here — _‘arose in the sky, a flame so mighty; the roots of life burn’_ . That’s Teldrassil!” she exclaimed. “And here — _‘what melody rose from depths of black; the waters moved and the dead slept’_. That’s you!”

“That’s absolutely ridiculous,” she insisted, yanking the book over to her and frantically skimming the page. “No, see — that bloody translation is wrong.”

“I think I’d know better than you would,” Thalyssra replied, not unkindly. “I checked and triple-checked. Even Liadrin agrees —”

Jaina shook her head incredulously. “Liadrin? What does Liadrin have to do with this?”

“She is closer to Sylvanas than either of us — I needed her assistance in speaking with the Banshee Queen —”

There was a knock at the door, quiet and discreet. Thalyssra’s eyes lit up. “Oh, that should be them.”

“Wh—” Jaina’s mind reeled. What did that even mean for them? Short of the thought being absolutely ridiculous, unfathomable, unprecedented — all those things — what the hell was she meant to do with the information? “Wait a minute, wait a damn minute —”

But Thalyssra would not. She moved to the door and pulled it open. Liadrin slipped in quickly, followed by a significantly less eager and wary Sylvanas Windrunner.

“Oh good,” Liadrin said, jerking her chin at the tome on the desk. “You’ve brought her up to speed. That’s half of the job done.”

Sylvanas eyed her warily from across the room, red eyes flicking to the tome and then back to her. “Proudmoore. I see they’ve roped you into this madness as well.”

“I’m honestly more surprised they roped _you_ into it,” she replied, mostly without thought, because rational thought didn’t seem to go very far in that moment. “You seem to be the most sensible one here. What the fuck is happening right now?”

Liadrin answered for the Warchief, which in any other situation would have surprised Jaina. “We need you to get married.Yesterday would have been ideal, but we’ll take what we can get.”

Jaina stared in alarm. “Ex _cuse_ me?”

“Married. Hitched. Espoused.” Liadrin waved a hand impatiently. “Whichever you prefer. The prophecy insists.”

“What bloody _prophecy_ —”

“The prophecy of the warrior and the mage,” Sylvanas intoned quietly, looking equally at a loss. It was the most emotive Jaina had ever seen her. “The prophecy spoke of the End of Days; the rise of a dark power and a frozen throne. Everything that’s happened so far has come true. More or less. They seem to be convinced that if you and I... _join_...it would bring the prophecy to full circle.”

“And we all won’t die,” Liadrin added.

Jaina opened her mouth to protest, but no sound would come forth but for a strangled choke. She stared at Sylvanas for some sort of indication; to see the sneering smirk and cruel eyes or a deeply-rooted boredness. Something other that the grimness that set the Queen’s brow into a furrow and her lips into a thin line.

“Tides,” she gasped. “You actually believe them.”

“What choice do I have?” Sylvanas snapped, bridling with irritation. “I was coerced into coming here —”

“You knew exactly where we were going. I saw you quicken your step —”

“ _Regardless_ ,” Sylvanas bit out, glaring at Liadrin. “We have nothing more to lose.” She looked at Jaina then, expectant and almost...unsure. “What say you, Lord Admiral? If we wed and it works, then that is all. If we do and it fails, it can be annulled. Simple as that.”

Thalyssra made a quiet little exclamation. “Oh, we must plan the wedding!”

“She hasn’t even said yes!” Liadrin gestured to Sylvanas. “Kneel, damn it. Do it proper.”

Jaina stared at them all, at Sylvanas, when the _Warchief knelt upon a knee before her_. A sudden rush of sensations made her sway in place.

“Don’t embarrass me, Proudmoore,” Sylvanas mumbled, glaring up at her. “I won’t debase myself further.”

“You need to _ask_ her, you twit,” Liadrin scoffed, and Jaina marvelled at the absolute tolerance for the disrespect as Sylvanas gritted her teeth and growled in response.

“There’s no need,” Jaina blurted. “Don’t — it’s fine. I —” Tides below and Light above, what the hell was she even doing? 

“I accept.”


	5. Prophecy 2.0

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Prophecy 2.0

The first she'd heard of the legend had been from the mouth of their grandfather. Tales of heritage and legacies woven into the very fabric of time itself. The prophecy of a warrior; a creature made of the Earth and yet — nothing close to it. A being of great power, great calamity — of great agony.

She remembered the story in faint wisps of memory; as with most of her past life. It was the last story her grandfather ever told them. There was no shortage of such tales in her family; for they were Windrunners, and Windrunners were carved into the very tapestry of elven history.

It was nothing more than legend. A fairy tale.

The Scourge was sweeping across the land the next she heard of it. Ancient loremasters and council members whispering it among the pews. This was the Warrior; come to smite the earth and raze their lands. She had been determined to defy it, for there could be no being so mighty, no being so certain in its destruction. She was Ranger-General. She was a Windrunner. Silvermoon would not fall until she breathed her last.

How was she to know then, how cruel fate could be?

The third and final time she heard tell of the legend was late in the night. Caught in a tenuous armistice between Alliance and Horde while they took stock of the unpredictable threat of Old Gods and encroaching armies. 

Liadrin came to her; barging through her private quarters without so much as a greeting. “We’ve got to talk.”

Sylvanas gave her an irritable glare. “A Knight does not make demands of a Queen.”

“I’m not coming to you as a Knight, I’m asking as a friend,” Liadrin replied.

Sylvanas rolled her eyes. “And what could be so pressing _as a friend_ that you would storm my private quarters at such an hour?”

The Blood Knight met her eyes seriously. “Do you remember the legend of the Warrior? The one about the Eternal Frost?”

Pursing her lips, Sylvanas bit out, “In parts.” She did not like to dwell too much on memories of the past. “What of it?”

“It’s true.”

“Just how drunk are you?”

“Perfectly sober, unfortunately,” Liadrin said. “But really — the legend. We’ve checked. Everything in the prophecy has come to pass so far. If we don’t stop it, there will be nothing left of Azeroth but ashes.”

Sylvanas scoffed and rounded on the Blood Knight. “I’m not an imbecile. Those are nothing more than stories. Old tales of glory spun by the ones who lived long enough to twist them. The Warrior is nothing. There is no prophecy.”

“ _‘Across the land swept a horizon of black; the monsters rose from the depths of briny waters and swallowed the sun.’_ Doesn’t that sound a lot like something the Old Gods have promised?” Liadrin pressed. “ _‘But ‘lo, the Warrior stood — heartless and black, for no such living creature could withstand the mortal perils —_ ”

“Enough,” she hissed. “I’ve heard enough of your drivel. Leave.”

Liadrin was unmoved; uncaring at the way Sylvanas bristled and growled and blood-red eyes bore viciously into her face. “‘ _The Warrior stood, and beside them, the Master of Fire, of Earth, of Sea. She of gilded heart who carried their bound souls together. Unto victory they arose. Unto glory they smote those that would rise against them.’_ ”

“Your Thalassian is lacking,” Sylvanas snapped. “‘ _Unto glory they_ **_conquered_** _.’_ ”

Liadrin’s bright eyes lit even brighter. “So you do know it all.”

Sighing, Sylvanas reached up to pinch her temples between her fingers. “What are you saying, Liadrin? Spit it out.”

“I’m saying that you are the Warrior. Heartless and all that.”

“I figured,” she drawled. “Who, then, is meant to be the one binding our souls together?”

“Now you’re just playing coy,” Liadrin chided her. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

Sylvanas gave her a hard look and Liadrin sighed, shaking her head in disappointment.

“It’s Jaina, obviously. You have to marry Jaina.”

\------

Kneeling in front of Jaina that night was a memory she recalled fondly, though not without some fair bit of irony.

The look of horror and confusion on Jaina’s face had been something to relish in that moment, but Sylvanas could admit that she had been equally at a loss. They were coming face-to-face with a force they couldn’t rightly anticipate. Their own factions were rife with conflict of their own through it all.

Collusions. Assassination attempts. Brawls.

And yet, despite it all, being married to Jaina was the least of her problems.

What began as a marriage of convenience and necessity eventually became a marriage of comfort. It was _easier_ to stay married after all was said and done. It was _safer_ to keep one another in check.

It was _better_ to keep one bedroom. To share one bed.

She couldn’t quite place her finger on when it became easier to love one another.

It didn’t matter either way.

Pressed against her in bed, Jaina hummed, nuzzling deeper into her chest. The soft snores warming against her skin was a soothing sound to her ears after years of marriage, and Sylvanas simply pulled her wife even closer.

Blearily, Jaina stirred for a moment, blinking sleep-glazed eyes up at her. She was met with a slow, dopey smile. “Hi.”

Sylvanas smiled back softly. “Hi.”

Jaina squirmed in closer, leaning up for a lazy kiss. “Were you watching me sleep again?”

“I always watch you sleep.”

“Creep.”

“ _Your_ creep.”

“Mmn. Only mine.”

“Always yours.”


	6. Jealousy/Angsty babe feels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Jealousy"
> 
> But I interpreted it as 'angsty baby feels'

It took Jaina a fair bit of time before she understood the state of turmoil her emotions were in. The conception and pregnancy held their own unique agonies and traumas — the birth most of all. Perhaps, if it had been a child that she had wanted to begin with; a child made with someone other than the Banshee Queen...

Weeks, it took her. Weeks before Jaina could stand to hold her own child — her own daughter, who had her blue eyes and soft spread of freckles. It was one thing to see her own features replicated on the impossibly tiny and squashy face of her child, but it was another thing to reconcile the fact that her daughter had a face too elegant and elf-like to ignore.

Not to mention the ears. Not as long as a full-blooded elf, but there was no denying the child's heritage.

Their child, whose name came from Sylvanas, because Jaina couldn't bear to even look at her after the birth.

Their daughter was called Aeryn Windrunner. Daughter of the Lord Admiral and Warchief. A beacon of hope for the new era of peace. Sylvanas had asked her once for a middle name, or perhaps to hyphenate their family names for the sake of heritage, but Jaina had simply shrugged her shoulders.

"Call her what you like," she had said. "I don't care."

Sylvanas had pursed her lips, red eyes burning with something like concern, but said nothing. 

Because they shared a chamber; because it would call for  _ concern _ if it ever came to light that Jaina couldn't stand to hold or feed her own child — Aeryn slept in their rooms. Tucked away within a lavish crib, made with elven filigree carved into solid oak wood, and a mobile hanging over it in shapes of anchors and ships.

Though Aeryn slept in their rooms, Jaina did not tend to her. Sylvanas woke with her each night; cared and caressed her and hummed little wordless tunes when the babe would fuss the most.

There were some nights when all she could was weep. In anger, in grief, in shame — in envy at the way Sylvanas took to the baby better than she had.

At the gentle urges from the midwives and healers, Jaina kept her milk. It would've been a waste, after all, but that didn't mean she needed to nurse Aeryn at her breast.

She expressed her milk whenever the need arose; Sylvanas took care of bottle-feeding.

Jaina threw herself back into her duties as soon as she could walk without the pains of birth between her hips. She was tender still, likely could have stayed resting for longer, but she couldn't bear to stay trapped within their rooms for much longer.

No one questioned it, but the smiles full of knowing and sympathy made her skin crawl.

One night, Jaina returned to their rooms to find Sylvanas cradling Aeryn in her arms; the babe's plush cheek tucked against her neck as she stood against the moonlight of the balcony.

Without turning to address her, Sylvanas said, "She likes the sound of the waves. It puts her to sleep the fastest."

Jaina stiffened and turned away. "I didn't ask."

"It's something you should know regardless," Sylvanas said, glancing back to meet her eyes impassively. "For when Greymane or your mother ask of her. They will want to know everything about her. You should at least have enough information to lie."

She expected it to sting, but Jaina felt little more than ire.

"By all means, answer them on my behalf," she replied snidely. "It makes no difference to me."

It continued for a time; Sylvanas mothering their child and she tucking her head beneath the pillows when Aeryn would cry at night. Sometimes, she would watch through her lashes as the Warchief — blooded and branded tyrant of an enemy faction — hovered and fussed over the cradle with gentle words and tender touches.

Other times, she would huff and toss in bed, until Sylvanas would slip away quietly to the adjoining study and the baby’s cries grew faint and muffled behind a closed door.

She wept most bitterly those nights. Why, for what, she couldn’t understand. It was nothing more than hormones at that point. Surely.

A month passed. It was customary, it seemed, to celebrate the first full moon of an infant — to celebrate its first full month of life. 

On the morning of the celebration, Sylvanas bathed and dressed Aeryn herself. Though they were never short of nannies and maids at hand, tending to their daughter was something she had always done. Jaina never cared to ask why.

"You'll need to hold her for the ceremony," Sylvanas said. "Try not to drop her."

Jaina scowled at her, but could admit that their daughter painted a very pretty picture; wrapped in a lavish swaddle of reds and golds. Auspicious colours to elves.

"What exactly am I meant to do?"

"Hold her," Sylvanas replied simply, though she seemed entirely unwilling to relinquish Aeryn from her arms. "It's tradition for mother and child to bathe together the morning of the ceremony — but that is assuming we abided by the confinement period. We didn't. This ceremony is meant to officially introduce her to our people. Family and friends and the realm, as it were. You will hold her while I cut her hair."

"Why cut her hair? She barely has any."

Sylvanas let out a sigh, as if there was no greater burden than to answer her. "It is tradition. We used to shave their heads. Now we just trim enough for the symbolism of it. Traditionally, the hair was made into a calligraphy brush."

"How unnecessary," she said.

Sylvanas glared, but made no further comment.

They stood within the Great Hall, side-by-side as the priest recited all the necessary blessings and incantations. Jaina's face ached as it droned on; sore from the forced and unfeeling smile she gave to anyone who caught her eye.

When it was time for the ceremony — when it was time for Sylvanas to trim their daughter's hair —, Jaina felt her spine stiffening, her heart plummeting into her stomach.

Sylvanas met her gaze and spoke in a hiss of breath. "Pull yourself together, Proudmoore."

The weight of the baby in her arms was strange and unwieldy; she had to shift Aeryn several times before she could get her hands in the proper position.

Aeryn squirmed as soon as she left Sylvanas’ arms, her little Cupid’s bow mouth pulling into a mouse as she whimpered.

Jaina froze. She gave the baby a feeble bounce, but Aeryn was already beginning to fuss in earnest.

Sylvanas stroked a hand over the bowl of Aeryn’s head, murmuring something in Thalassian. The baby’s long brows lifted in recognition, calming somewhat.

Then she pulled away, and Aeryn fussed again.

“Hold her closer to you,” Sylvanas muttered, casting a pointed look at the crowd watching from the pews. “At least  _ pretend _ to care, damn you.”

“I’m doing my best,” she hissed, tucking Aeryn closer to her. The baby squirmed and nuzzled close, nosing around against her chest. The pressure made her breast ache in response; she could feel one start to leak. “Just get it over with.”

Sylvanas made a low noise of irritation in her throat but said nothing else. She clipped the end of Aeryn’s hair, coming away with a soft tuft of blonde curl that she carefully secured with a length of red silk before passing it on to the priest.

When it was over, Jaina all but shoved the baby back into Sylvanas’ arms. She tried not to notice the way Aeryn settled comfortably there.

She tried not to notice her mother’s worried face watching from the crowd.

After the ceremony, Jaina began to notice the preferences. Though she tried her best to be present in her daughter’s life; though she tried to hold Aeryn more — it was clear that their daughter preferred Sylvanas. When she held the baby, Aeryn squirmed and fussed and cried, and would only calm when placed in the arms of the banshee.

“She doesn’t know you,” Sylvanas told her, though not unkindly. “Give it time.”

Though she knew it was of her own doing, Jaina couldn’t help the slow festering ugliness that grew each passing day that Aeryn chose Sylvanas over her. 

As Aeryn blossomed from a newborn to a full-fledged baby, so too did her personality. The baby smiled her first smile as Sylvanas spoke to her quietly one morning. Jaina watched, hovering by the bed and pretending not to notice the way the Banshee Queen’s eyes lit up and voice lightened into an almost giddy lilt.

“What a pretty smile,” Sylvanas cooed, pressing a tender kiss to the baby’s chubby cheek. “You have your mother’s smile, my little star.”

The way Sylvanas crooned should have made something warm and soft bloom in her chest. Instead, all she felt was a hollow ache.

It had to be an ugly thing, but surely understandable. That she would be jealous of her own child choosing another over her.

When Sylvanas was away, she took to laying the baby on the bed by her. Aeryn kicked and squirmed and fussed at times, but eventually they seemed to come to a stalemate.

“I know,” she said to the baby sometimes, leaning on an arm and watching Aeryn. “I wouldn’t want to be near me, either.”

Aeryn snuffled at her voice, blue eyes searching for her face. When they found her, the baby quieted, staring intently into her face.

“You’ll probably hate me,” she muttered, reaching out and tentatively stroking a finger over Aeryn’s cheek. “You already seem to. I don’t blame you. I’m sorry you weren’t born to a better mother. Or a better world. But at least one of us is doing a good job.”

Aeryn blinked at her mincingly and cooed.

Despite herself, Jaina found herself smiling softly. “I’m just as surprised as you are. Who would’ve thought that the Warchief of the Horde would be such an attentive mother.” She ran her fingers gently over Aeryn’s belly, watching as the baby cooed and kicked at the sensation.

_ “That’s because she isn’t my first.” _

Jaina startled at the voice, pushing upright off the bed and twisting around. There, in the doorway; Sylvanas watched them, expression unreadable but not unkind.

It was hard to hide her surprise. “She’s not?”

Sylvanas pushed off the doorway and approached the bed, settling on the edge. “No,” she replied, bending to nuzzle Aeryn’s hair. The baby kicked and snuffled excitedly, no doubt recognising her, and Sylvanas’ lips twitched into a sad smile. “Despite what you and the Alliance may think — I was once married. I had a wife. We had a child. A daughter the same. Count yourself lucky that Aeryn is nowhere near as fussy as Nilarith ever was.”

That Sylvanas would willingly reveal such personal memories left Jaina reeling. She floundered for a moment for what to say; if she was meant to say anything at all. Instead she watched quietly as Sylvanas danced elegant fingers over Aeryn’s belly, tickling under their daughter’s chin and stroking over an ear.

The tenderness and care in the touch made Jaina’s chest stir with something she recognised as sympathy and guilt at once.

Eventually, she found the sense to croak out, “I’m sorry. For your loss.”

Sylvanas lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “It was another lifetime. I have mourned them enough. I will carry them with me as long as I walk this earth.” She lifted her eyes and glanced at Jaina. “I at least take some comfort in knowing that our daughter died in her mother’s arms...and that she was loved deeply.”

Jaina stared down at Aeryn; at the way the baby clung to Sylvanas’ finger in one tight fist.

“I do love her,” she murmured. “I think. I’m meant to, aren’t I?”

“I can’t tell you what to feel,” Sylvanas said. “The circumstances of her birth weren’t something to recall fondly. It’s understandable that you resent her for what she represents.”

It was unfair. To Aeryn and herself. Victims of circumstance.

“I don’t resent her,” she insisted. “I just — I just don’t know how to feel about her.”

Sylvanas went quiet. She looked down into Aeryn’s face for a long moment, until the tension seemed to bleed hard enough for the baby to notice.

Aeryn let out a whimper, kicking her legs.

Sylvanas’ ear flicked. “She’s hungry.”

“How do you know?”

“You learn their cries over time. Hungry, wet, bored. Hurt.” Sylvanas pushed upright. “I will get her bottle ready.”

Jaina peered down at the baby, took in Aeryn’s little moue and soft cries. The sound made her breasts prickle and she winced, reaching up to soothe the pressure.

Hesitantly, she said, “I can — I can try to feed her.”

Sylvanas paused and glanced at her warily. “You don’t have to —”

“I want to,” Jaina said, reaching up to untie the laces of her tunic slowly. “I’d at least like to try.”

Though it was clear she was doubtful still, Sylvanas inclined her head. “Would you rather I —?” She gestured towards the door. 

Jaina flushed and shrugged her tunic off a shoulder low enough to expose one breast. “You’ve seen it all,” she muttered, gingerly manoeuvring Aeryn into her arms. “I’d — appreciate it if you stayed. I don’t know if I’ll be able to get her to latch.”

Sylvanas nodded slowly and moved back towards the bed. Aeryn fussing in her arms brought all of Jaina’s attention to the baby; but she could see in the corner of her eye, the Warchief bustling about with pillows.

“Here.” Sylvanas piled the pillows high against the headboard, gesturing to her. “Lean back. I’ll put a pillow under your arm. Something to brace the weight of her while she nurses.”

Jaina obeyed, shuffling back against the pillows comfortably, keenly aware of the way Aeryn squirmed and wriggled closer to the warmth of her skin. She tucked the baby into the crook of her arm and slouched slightly to urge Aeryn to her breast.

The first suck stung and she pulled away in instinct, gritting her teeth against the pain.

Aeryn let out a cry at the loss, but Sylvanas was there to soothe her.

“Gently,” she coaxed. “Hold her closer and let her set her mouth fully on your breast. She’ll know what to do.”

It was a strange, alien sensation; pinching slightly when Aeryn finally latched. There was a soft, wet suckling sound, and Jaina felt something shift and open in her chest as the baby began to suckle greedily.

“There now,” Sylvanas murmured, settling down on the bed beside her. “You’re a natural.”

Jaina said nothing — couldn’t trust herself to say anything with her throat welled thick with emotions she wouldn’t dare name. 

Instead, she cradled their daughter close; one finger clasped tightly in Aeryn’s little hand.


	7. Baby feels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Baby feels

Jaina cradled Aeryn close, rocking the baby desperately as she wailed and sobbed. It seemed almost endless; there was no telling how long it had been since their daughter’s cries began. There was no telling when it would end.

“Hush, darling, hush,” Jaina mumbled. The exhaustion of motherhood seemed to weigh on her shoulders heavier and heavier each night, when she would hold Aeryn and the babe would only wail. “What’s the matter?”

Aeryn whimpered and sobbed, squirming in her hold. The baby’s face was flushed pink with exertion and streaked in tears, bleary eyes searching for something that Jaina couldn’t see.

The door creaked from behind her and Jaina startled, clutching the baby tighter to her. Her eyes widened with recognition, then glazed with defeat.

Sylvanas approached carefully, eyeing her wife. “Alina summoned me,” she said.

“I don’t know what else she wants,” Jaina sighed, patting Aeryn helplessly on the back. “I’ve fed her and changed her, but she won’t stop crying.”

“Let me take her,” Sylvanas offered gently, reaching out to the baby. “You haven’t been sleeping.”

All too gratefully, Jaina relinquished her daughter to Sylvanas. “I don’t understand what she wants — I’ve done everything I can think of and she still won’t  _ stop _ .” She stepped back and palmed her face wearily, pressing her heel of her palm against her eyes to soothe the burn of tears behind them.

Sylvanas rocked the baby in her arms, humming little quiet noises and murmuring lilting Thalassian words. 

The crying stopped abruptly.

Jaina stared wordlessly, stunned by relief and surprise and a familiar ache of hurt. “Of course,” she whispered, lips twisting into a watery, bitter smile. “It was me.”

“Jaina,” Sylvanas murmured, staring down at Aeryn.

“She just wanted to be away from me —”

“Jaina, look.” Sylvanas turned her shoulder, and together they looked down at their daughter. Cheek nestled against her neck, Aeryn was staring intently into Jaina’s face, little ears twitching.

The baby burbled in content when her eyes caught Jaina’s, suckling on a fist as if all was right in the world again.

Sylvanas smiled warmly, stroking a hand down Aeryn’s back in understanding. “She just wanted to look at you,” she said quietly. “You’ve been holding her so much. She just needed to see your face.”

A sob caught in her throat, as Jaina sputtered out an almost hysterical laugh. Sylvanas opened an arm and she fell into her wife’s embrace readily, collapsing against the Warchief’s hold as they pressed Aeryn tightly between them.

Sylvanas held them both, swaying slowly on her feet as the warmth of Jaina’s tears began to seep into her tunic. “It’s been a long night for you both,” she whispered, pressing a kiss into her wife’s hair. “Let’s go to bed.”


	8. Happy baby feels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Happy baby feels

As the seasons shed their colours; as autumn came in gentle wisps of leaves gathering beneath their feet, they walked the gardens.

Aeryn delighted in each shade of red and orange and yellow that the leaves turned. Delighted in cupping them between her little chubby hands to crinkle and crunch. Each time they crumpled between her fingers, the little princess giggled and smiled. As she grew, her eyes took on something closer to a faintly elven hue, though most of her was still entirely Jaina. Her pale hair had grown long enough to make sweet little pigtails, each thread fine and fair like Sylvanas’ but plentiful in volume as Jaina’s.

It was something the rangers delighted in, for whatever reason — there were days she would come to collect Aeryn from their minding and find her daughter’s hair braided into the most intricate things.

Though it had taken time, Jaina learned to love her daughter. In turn, Aeryn loved her mothers equally and freely — though with an occasional preference for Jaina when it came to bedtime feedings now.

Sylvanas never begrudged it, only smiled and ruffled their daughter’s hair and teased Aeryn in Thalassian as she fed.

“Mama, fwowers!” Aeryn reached out a fistful of leaves, held like game from a fine hunt.

Jaina peered down at Aeryn and held out a hand to accept the gift graciously. “How pretty. Thank you, my little sparrow.” She crouched down to meet her daughter’s gaze and fiddled with a leaf between her fingers, smiling softly. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? The leaves are changing colours.”

"Cowour,” Aeryn repeated, waddling onwards distractedly. They continued down the garden path for a moment longer; Jaina trailing after her little adventurer with an affection she hadn’t thought possible.

Aeryn stopped abruptly then, turning her head skywards so fast that Jaina gasped with worry.

With an excited squeak, Aeryn pointed up at a tree. “Cowour! Mi'da!”

Jaina looked up as well, brows furrowing — then she blinked. The tree was crowned in a glorious plumage of red; shade of which she couldn’t even begin to name. Each beautiful in its own way. Each as sharp and beautiful as her wife.

“Oh,” she said quietly. “Yes. They are her colours, aren’t they?”

“Pwetty,” Aeryn gasped, toddling back to her and stumbling forward to hug a leg. “Go Mi'da? Mama?”

Jaina bent and swept Aeryn up into her arms, cuddling the girl close. “Yes, my little sparrow. Let’s find your Minn'da.”


	9. soft sylvaina cuddles + pregnancy fluff + Sylvanas counting Jaina's freckles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 3-in-1 prompt fill: soft sylvaina cuddles + pregnancy fluff + Sylvanas counting Jaina's freckles

The first thing Jaina became aware of was the soft spill of light spreading across her face. Warmth that came on the back of a faint, ticklish sensation; like fine hairs brushing against her cheek. She hummed, turning her face into the pillows and nestling deeper within them.

There was a purr; rumbling and soft as the whispering sensation came again.

Jaina peeled open her eyes lazily, blinking in the murky morning light. Her lips spread easily into a smile; habit now, really — at the sight of her wife’s beautiful face hovering at her side. Thick and warm with sleep, she murmured, “What’re you doing, mmn?”

Sylvanas smiled back, languid and softer than some thought the Banshee Queen capable of. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” she said, bending to press a whispering kiss over Jaina’s cheekbone. “I couldn’t help myself.”

“You couldn’t help watch me sleep?” Jaina mumbled, wry and teasing as she rolled herself with some effort until she could face her wife. Tracing her own fingers over Sylvanas’ cheek, she tilted her face up for a kiss, which was more than happily obliged.

A cool hand came up to rest against the globe of her belly gently, tender in the way Sylvanas stroked over the delicate skin pulled taut over where their child slept still.

It wasn’t too often that they got to share mornings so soft. Though Sylvanas came to bed with her each night, the Warchief rose before dawn and kept busy. The deeper into her pregnancy she got, the more Jaina found herself needing naps and breaks in the day. Bypassing meetings she didn’t quite need to be part of — though that part was done with some great effort.

As much as her restless mind rebelled against the thought, Jaina was at the whim of her body. Being nine months pregnant would sap the strength out of anyone.

Against her lips, Sylvanas murmured, “You looked so peaceful. I rarely see you so at rest these days. I haven’t had the chance to count your freckles like I used to.”

Jaina chuckled, pulling away to nuzzle into Sylvanas’ neck. “And whose fault is that?” She slid a hand down to join her wife’s, pressed against where there was a definite thump from within.

“She’s been awfully spritely lately.”

“Mmn. Excited to come out. Things are getting pretty cramped in there.”

Sylvanas nodded sagely. “She was looking a little low yesterday. It should be any day now.”

Jaina let out a slow sigh, burying her face into the scent of cold steel and tulips as Sylvanas’ idle touches lulled her back into the call of sleep. Still, no matter how comfortable she was, how content; there was a prickle of fear that ate into the back of her mind.

She squeezed her arms gently around Sylvanas’ neck. “I’m nervous,” she mumbled. “I don’t — what if we’re not ready?”

Sylvanas pulled back just enough for their eyes to meet, expression uncharacteristically soft. “What frightens you most,  _ dalah’surfal _ ? The birth, or everything that comes afterwards?”

“All of it,” she admitted, shifting as close as her belly would allow. “Sometimes I dream of all the things that could go wrong. That might happen to her. Sometimes I dream of just…” A prickle of heat built behind her eyes, and Jaina blinked hard to quell the urge to start bawling.

Damn hormones.

Sylvanas purred soothingly, kissing the saltwater-swell of Jaina’s eyes. Knowing and quiet, she asked, “Do you dream of if she came out like me; if she came out corrupted —”

Jaina pinched an ear reproachfully. “You’re not corrupted,” she chided.

“—  _ marked _ ,” Sylvanas allowed. “By my condition. Is that what wakes you at night?”

Though it pained her to admit it, Jaina said, “Yes. At first. Not anymore. I wouldn’t care if she came out with wings and an extra foot.”

“It was my fear the same,” Sylvanas said quietly. “Still is, at times. I worry of the ways she would be treated; if she’ll grow up to resent me the same as everyone else.”

“I’d never let that happen,” Jaina said firmly.

“Would you love her any less…if she were like me?”

“Of course not,” she replied heatedly. “I’d love her no matter what. No matter who she becomes. I dream about failing her. Of failing you. As a mother. As a wife.”

Sylvanas reached up and caressed her cheek, bending enough to kiss behind an ear. “That in itself is your answer.”

Jaina sighed. Though it festered in her still, to hear the assurances out loud did much to calm the nerves building in her chest. Feeling Sylvanas’ hand gently cradling the curve of her belly certainly helped as well.

She felt a flutter, something not unlike indigestion as their daughter gave a very decisive kick against the palm of Sylvanas’ hand. She winced. “Ow. Easy in there.”

Eyes crinkling slightly with mirth, Sylvanas shifted back until she was eye level with Jaina’s belly. “Gently, little one,” she hummed, cradling the prominent bump between both hands. “Don’t hurt your mother.”

“She’s making herself known,” Jaina said. “Always ready with an opinion, this one. Hates olives. Loves pickles dipped in sugar.”

“She knows her own mind,” Sylvanas drawled, pressing a kiss against Jaina’s navel. “Quite like her mother.”

“Her Minn’da.”

“Certainly explains her tyranny.”


	10. Sylvanas temporarily leaves in pure banshee form for some reason. Jaina, unaware of this, comes back to their quarters and finds her unresponsive physical body.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylvanas temporarily leaves in pure banshee form for some reason. Jaina, unaware of this, comes back to their quarters and finds her unresponsive physical body.

There were many facets of her wife that still eluded her. Years of marriage, and still there were things about Sylvanas that Jaina didn’t entirely know. She never minded it, really; there were still parts of herself that she couldn’t quite bring herself to share either.

They had experienced enough in their lifetimes to understand that there were things about them no one else would ever know.

Still, there were some things that ate at Jaina’s curiosity. Parts of Sylvanas that were mysterious and vague — most of which pertained to the powers of an Undead the Banshee Queen wielded. At times, she would dare to ask, but all she would ever get in return was a cryptic smile and coy words.

Honestly, she was surprised she expected anything else. For however tolerable Sylvanas was as a spouse, the elf was still an ostentatious asshole at the best of times.

It really was just her personality at that point. Jaina had surrendered to it.

Then one day, she walked into Sylvanas’ study. There were many ways Jaina expected to walk in on her wife. Pacing, usually. Sprawled out on the chaise by the fire some nights.

Not slumped in an armchair, chin dipped against her chest, arms dangling over the rests.

The Warchief  _ never _ slumped. Slumping was unbecoming of a Queen.

She paused some few feet away, eyeing Sylvanas warily. “Sylvanas?” She rounded on the armchair slowly.

Her spine went cold.

“Sylvanas!” she cried, rushing forward. The Warchief was pale; ashen grey and limp. Eyes milky white. The fire that burned within those brimstone eyes snuffed. She took hold of Sylvanas’ shoulders and shook them, fumbled to press her fingers against cold, cold skin for a pulse — then cursed herself for her stupidity.

She lifted Sylvanas’ form from the chair, stumbling at the deadweight of her wife as she fell back against the carpet. Her heart crawled up into her throat, throttling the words as they came.

“Wake up.” She tapped frantically at Sylvanas’ cheek. “Now is not the time for  _ games _ , damn you!”

What could it have been? Poison? An assassin? A deadly new bioweapon?

Sylvanas’ head lolled onto her arm and stayed there.

She panicked, tilting her head down and pressing her lips against Sylvanas’ cold ones. Willing as much arcane into her lungs, she breathed.

There was a distant wail somewhere; the haunting sound that came only from a banshee’s throat. The balcony curtains billowed, snapping loudly in a breeze that came like a storm. A misting figure appeared from the darkness, carrying the scent of the forest and cold steel and tulips.

The banshee came in a cloud of darkness, hovering over the space as her wild hair writhed like snakes behind her. Her nails were hooked like claws and her fangs were overgrown; bloodstained and gleaming. Her burning eyes honed in on Jaina, widening in surprise.

The voice was sibilant and lilting; more resonant than ever before. “Jaina?”

Jaina stared in disbelief. “S-Sylvanas?” She clutched the Warchief’s body closer, gaping still. “How —?”

The banshee didn’t answer; only reached out a hand and touched the wrist of her physical body. Slowly, she began to dissipate, melting into nothingness as her physical form shuddered and jerked, the purple hue of her skin returning in a slow bleed of colour.

Sylvanas made one last shudder, chest swelling once with a heavy breath as her eyes slid open. She blinked, turning her face up to Jaina. She reached up and grasped at the hand cradling her face.

“Jaina,” she murmured, brows furrowing in confusion. “Why are you holding me?”

“Oh — my god,” Jaina choked, staring incredulously. “You were —  _ I thought you were dead. _ ”

Sylvanas pushed herself upright slowly. She gave Jaina’s hand a soft squeeze and let it drop away. “Technically I  _ am _ —”

Jaina cut her off with a hard thump on the chest.

Sylvanas grunted, staring up at her indignantly. “What was that for??”

“You idiot!” Jaina hissed, giving her insufferable wife a shake. She all but shoved Sylvanas off her and surged to her feet in a huff. Anger radiated off her in waves; “I thought you’d been assassinated! Poisoned!”

“So you kissed me??”

“ _ I thought you were dead! _ ” she yelled. “You were sitting there — slumped over like a corpse —”

“I am a corpse —”

Jaina threw her hands up, tears brimming in her eyes from frustration. “Light take you, Sylvanas — I was worried! Wouldn’t you be if you’d found me sprawled over my desk?”

Sylvanas had the decency to look sheepish. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I was just…out.”

“Out?? Out of your body??”

“Out hunting,” she huffed, tilting her neck this way and that, stretching our muscles and joints that had likely stiffened from however long she had been slumped over. “I didn’t expect anyone to find me in such a state. You never come into my study at such an hour.”

Jaina blinked. “I was coming to find you because you hadn’t come to bed.  _ Because _ it is such an hour.”

“Oh.”

Ridiculous. If Sylvanas thought she could somehow pin the whole incident on Jaina — “What do you mean you were out hunting?”

“I hunt. At night.” Sylvanas made a vague gesture at herself. “Sometimes I need… _ replenishing _ .”

Right. ‘Hunting’ creatures in the woods to feed her power stores and life force. The not-so-pleasant little part of being a banshee. She’d only ever heard and seen Sylvanas do it on enemies or creatures they felled. And even then, there hadn’t been a body left behind.

Jaina sighed, suddenly becoming all too aware of the hour and the great weariness in her bones. Rather petulantly, she said, “You scared me.”

Sylvanas peered at her for a moment with something like understanding and amusement both, slipping in close to wrap an arm around her waist. “I’m sorry. Truly.”

Jaina huffed again, but did not rebuke the placating kiss her wife pressed against her cheek. “I’m still mad,” she mumbled, though she reached an arm out and squeezed Sylvanas to her the same.

“I’ll make it up to you,” Sylvanas promised, kissing the crown of her hair. “I’ve just had my fill. I’m  _ brimming _ with energy.”

“I’m too tired to drain you of it,” she replied archly.

“Then I shall service you,” Sylvanas purred, kneading her hips. “I’ll do all the work. You can just lie there. And you’ll get coffee and breakfast in the morning.”

Jaina resisted for a moment longer before relenting, wrapping her arms tightly around Sylvanas’ neck. “You’d better make me come  _ at least _ three times.”

“We’ll see if you’re still conscious after the first.”


	11. Jaina flaunting her magical prowess and Sylvanas being awestruck/overwhelmed by it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Jaina flaunting her magical prowess and Sylvanas being awestruck/overwhelmed by it

She understood, even in some peripheral way, the power the Lord Admiral wielded. 

Not merely for the titles Proudmoore held, but Sylvanas could remember hearing tell of the last living heir of Kul Tiras even in the early days of Jaina’s time in Dalaran.

Long before she had ever crossed paths with Jaina Proudmoore as Banshee Queen — as Warchief —she’d known of Jaina’s reputation.

Powerful. Willful. As impressive as she was terrifying.

Age and experience had done precious little to temper the burning flame of righteousness and ambition in Jaina. She’d simply learned how to channel it.

The thought seemed to unsettle the Alliance more than her vibrant temper.

The last thing Sylvanas would think to call Proudmoore was ‘unassuming’. No one could look at Jaina and forget the hidden wealth of power she wielded. Perhaps it was easier for humans, who lacked dearly in the way they perceived the world, but they as elves were both blessed and cursed with the ability to be keenly attuned to the otherworldly pull of the arcane.

It certainly explained some part of Tyrande and Vereesa’s fascination with Jaina.

She had seen Jaina on the battlefield countless times. Knew the arcane signature unique to only her wife when the earth came to life with the scent of scorched ozone and sea breeze.

Whether they had been on opposite ends of the chessboard or pressed back-to-back against a swarm of enemies, it was undeniable — the way Jaina rocked the earth they stood on. The powers of a banshee were certainly vast and terrifying, but Jaina held the forces of nature in the palm of her hand with the strength to either cradle a fragile life or crush it entirely.

It fascinated Sylvanas to observe Jaina. No doubt, the fascination was reciprocated; for such an avid mind, there was no pretending that the functions of an Undead creature as powerful and unpredictable as a banshee didn’t drive Jaina to the point of madness for her need to understand everything.

That was one other thing. Jaina had the curiosity to kill a cat ten times over. It was almost child-like; the way her head would tilt this way and that, her bright eyes wide and intent on whatever it was that drew her attention. She watched, then understood, then applied.

Sylvanas remembered the day Jaina joined her and the Dark Rangers for a bout around the training yard. Remembered the keen, almost feline way Jaina’s eyes trailed after them around the yard. Remembered the way those bright blue eyes glittered with curiosity when she allowed some of her own prowess to come to light.

“Your powers,” Jaina said that night, as they were bedding down. “That thing that you do — when you siphon life force. What do you  _ do _ , exactly?”

Sylvanas eyed her for a moment, then shrugged. “Kill them, obviously.”

“Well — yes, but do you take their soul? Their essence?”

“I drain them of everything. The very breath in their lungs. The light in their eyes.”

“It fuels you?”

“In some way. Though like living creatures, I do need to watch what I ‘eat’.”

“How so?”

Sylvanas shrugged again. “It feeds my body, but what I feed it can be more of a detriment than a benefit. Beings touched by arcane are ideal. Corrupted ones…” She tilted her head vaguely.

Jaina hummed thoughtfully. “It’s not something all Undead can do, is it? It’s something only banshees can control.”

“Others have variants of it. Necromancers. Priests. They all channel a bastardisation of fel magic in some way. Though none are as…” She waved a hand. “ _ Dramatic _ , I suppose.”

Jaina’s mouth curved with amusement, but there was certainly something darker in her eyes that prickled at the base of Sylvanas’ spine.

“Surely you mages have something of the sort in your arsenal of magic.”

“Perhaps,” Jaina replied, far too flippant as she turned over onto her side. “Goodnight.”

Sylvanas knew the calculating little gleam in those eyes. There were no further questions in the days after, but she began to notice the slightest change in Jaina’s scent. Soft at first; faint. Something earthy and bittersweet like the scent of wood rot blooming from beneath the mulch of a damp forest floor.

It wasn’t an unpleasant scent, but it was no less unsettling.

The last thing she expected Jaina to smell like was an Undead.

It was there a moment, then gone the next. At times, she caught Jaina’s eye and saw something almost knowing and coy there. Tempted as she was to press; to pry about such secrecy, being knee-deep in a war against the Old Gods left precious little time for idle conversation.

They were in the heart of the battlefield when it came to light again. Back-to-back, as they often found themselves in recent times, facing off waves of corruption that came in all shapes and sizes.

The Light gave them a wide enough berth to manoeuvre, but the swarms seemed endless. Sylvanas’ power stores drained and restored in turns with such speed it made her almost dizzy with it. It was insidious; she was taking in too much fel, too much Twilight.

She gathered the darkness around her and Wailed once more — pulling in the gathering crowd of corrupted soldiers around them and draining all she could.

Then she staggered, Deathwhisper gripped tight in hand as she bent to a knee.

Jaina’s hand settled on her shoulder, fingers sliding between the straps of her pauldron. “Sylvanas.”

She batted the hand away and rose to her feet with some effort. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine!” Jaina snapped. “You take any more of them inside you and the Old Gods will stick in that thick skull of yours.”

“Did you have a better idea?” she shot back.

Jaina’s hand shot out and fisted tightly to the front of her breastplate. Her eyes widened as she was yanked forward in a rush and a pair of lips crushed against hers.

It felt, rather frighteningly, as if Jaina was draining the very life force from her.

She knew the sensation as well as she knew her own skin; knew this brimming power of death magic. There was no one else who could wield it as she could, and yet —

And yet.

She wrenched herself away, claws sinking deep into the meat of Jaina’s arms —

Then gasped.

Black and purple veins crawled across Jaina’s skin and up into her face. It ate away into the vibrant blue of her eyes until they glittered like an obsidian sky. Her alabaster hair came apart from its thick braid, unfurling around Jaina’s head like a living creature.

Then she grinned.

Her voice carried the same eerie echo of a banshee.

“Together,” she said, and Sylvanas’ ears flicked at the reverberating trill of it. “One last Wail.”

Sylvanas licked her lips and tasted sea breeze. It was a blank of memory after that — she couldn’t remember much outside of taking Jaina’s back once more. Of opening her mouth and Wailing. Of hearing the resonating echo of it in Jaina’s voice; amplified and augmented. Of watching their enemies crumple into a pile at their feet, left as nothing more than smouldering husks.

When it died away, Sylvanas found herself swaying in place. Jaina leaning at her back.

It had been a lifetime since she felt the exhaustion of war.

Jaina’s hand clasped sluggishly to her neck, cold and clammy. She could barely comprehend the mumbled, slurring command. “Catch me.”

Sylvanas turned in time for Jaina to collapse into her arms, bloodless and trembling. The blackness had faded away, the obsidian sky had given way to blue once more. She gathered the mage close and told herself that the tremble in her voice and arms were nothing more than exhaustion. 

Quietly, and with no small amount of awe, she said, “That was…incredible. I’ve never felt —”

“So powerful?” Jaina finished, smiling wanly. “Neither have I.”

“What did you do?” Sylvanas demanded, sweeping Jaina into a bridal carry and marching back through the ranks. They were out in the open still; even with a pile of bodies at their feet. They were sitting ducks. “You look close to death.”

Jaina gave her a wry smile. “Magic trick. I learned how to do what you do."

Sylvanas stared at her. “I thought fel magic was forbidden to you.”

“Not fel magic,” Jaina replied. “Death magic. Necromantic power.” Her head lolled as they moved, resting wearily against Sylvanas’ chest. “I might vomit on you. Fair warning.”

“Why would you subject yourself to such a thing? Curiosity kills, if you didn’t realise."

Jaina huffed and found enough strength to lift her head and glare at Sylvanas. “When you’re married to a martyr with a penchant for running headfirst into battle, the end tends to justify the means.”

The absurdity of it made Sylvanas bark out a laugh. “You expect me to believe that you did this for  _ me _ ?”

“Yes,” Jaina said simply. “You’re my wife. For better or worse. Now please hurry up and get me to a bucket because I really do need to vomit.”

“Remarkable,” Sylvanas murmured, shaking her head, despite the smile that was slowly beginning to spread across her face. “Ridiculous. You’re lucky I like you.”

“Aw. I’d kiss you again but I don’t want to risk throwing up in your mouth.”

“Kisses can come later. For now, let’s just make sure you haven’t permanently damaged yourself.”


	12. Sylvanas saves Jaina in Thros before Katherine and the Alliance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Sylvaina AU where Sylvanas saves Jaina in Thros before Katherine and the Alliance?

Sylvanas pursed her lips. “Must you do this?”

“You know I do. I want to.”

She’d known the answer and still she loathed it. Sighing, she regarded the figure silhouetted against the moonlight; pale hair illuminated like the very cast of Elune herself. She approached carefully, for however long that they shared a bed — there were still many facets to her lover that Sylvanas did not quite yet know.

Gently, she reached out and dared to lay a hand on the other woman’s shoulder. “Jaina,” she murmured; almost beseeching. Almost. “You know this is a suicide mission.”

Jaina sighed, but leaned gratefully into her touch. Emboldened, she pressed forward, until they were flush together.

Nuzzling softly into Jaina’s hair, she said, “At least keep Alina with you.”

Sighing once more, Jaina turned her head to brace her temple against Sylvanas’ chin. “No,” she said quietly. “I need to do this alone. There’s no telling what sort of reception I’ll get — what more with Forsaken at my heels?”

For however much she loathed to admit it, Jaina was right. Their relationship was a closely guarded secret. To have a dark ranger come to the Lord Admiral’s aid in such a time would cause an uproar she had no mood to engage in.

Sylvanas made a low grumble of annoyance in her throat. “What are you hoping to gain from this?” She slid her hand idly along Jaina’s midriff, tracing her thumb over the ridge of every buckle and strap within reach.

“You know what.”

“I know what the _Alliance_ hopes to gain. The Alliance is not synonymous to your personhood, you realise.”

Jaina was quiet for a long moment; lips pursed and eyes faraway. Finally, at length, she said, “Forgiveness, I suppose. Closure. I’m honestly not sure anymore.”

“ _Hmm_. You know there’s a chance they’ll throw you behind bars before you open your mouth.”

Jaina shrugged. “If that is my mother’s wish, then so be it.”

“Jaina —”

She pulled away then, and Sylvanas quelled the urge to keep her in place. Jaina turned, expression grim and knowing. “You have to promise me you won’t storm Kul Tiras.”

“I won’t let you martyr yourself to soothe your guilty conscience,” she protested.

Jaina reached out and took one of Sylvanas’ hands between her own, squeezing gently, eyes almost pleading. “I’m asking you to trust me.”

“I trust _you_ ,” she said brusquely, turning her hand inward to twine their fingers and squeezing tight enough for Jaina’s brows to furrow. “I do not trust them.”

“Please,” Jaina murmured, then brought their joined hands up to her lips. “I need to do this.”

Sylvanas frowned, eyes narrowing slightly at the affection. It was soft; too soft to be without a motive. Jaina didn’t make it a habit to scheme in such a way, but even the Lord Admiral was not above using their devotion to one another for a single-minded purpose. 

Still, she felt her unbeating heart waver. Grumbling, she said, “...fine. But keep your ring on you. I will not let them sentence you to death for the ignorance of your father.”

Jaina smiled fondly and raised on her tiptoes to kiss Sylvanas softly. “I won’t be alone. Genn will be there with me —”

“That in no way soothes me.”

Chuckling, Jaina wrapped her arms fully around Sylvanas’ shoulders and brought them nose-to-nose. “I’ll make it up to you when I come back.”

Sylvanas pulled her close, kneading Jaina’s hips. “All I ask is that you return to me. In one piece.”

Jaina smiled wryly. “Dark Lady,” she purred teasingly. “What’s the point of having the Banshee Queen as a lover if she can’t even put me back together in death?”

“Don’t tease about that,” Sylvanas chided her gently. “I would give all of my val’kyr to keep you. You know that. I would even bargain with Bwonsamdi.”

“I know,” Jaina promised, kissing her tenderly. “And I would crawl on the beds of my nails back to you.”

“Let us hope that isn’t an option,” Sylvanas muttered, wrapping her arms tightly around Jaina.

\-------

Were she in any kinder of a mood, Sylvanas would have gloated. Were it not for the unbridled fury brewing in her chest as her eyes skimmed over the scrawled letter from Alina, she would have laughed. Instead, she felt only a cold, brewing rage.

“Blightcaller,” she snarled.

The Ranger Lord materialised in a plume of mist. “Dark Lady.”

“Proudmoore’s mother. Where is she.”

“The Lady Proudmoore’s ship, my Queen. Headed somewhere along the western coast.”

Sylvanas said nothing else; she tore open a portal and marched through. The pathways between her personal quarters and Jaina’s were plenty and direct — and ones that she took great advantage of.

She emerged within the Lord Admiral’s private quarters of the flagship, bleeding fury and purpling mist. She heard a cry of surprise and turned; her blood-red eyes narrowing at the sight of the older Proudmoore.

Katherine staggered back in alarm. The resemblance between her and Jaina stirred something twisting and raw in Sylvanas’ chest, like oil fed into an already roaring flame. “You! What’re you doing here —”

“Jaina. Where is Jaina.”

The Lady Proudmoore continued to gape and sputter, eyes darting towards the door. “Guards!”

Sylvanas advanced on her menacingly. Mist and tendrils bled like a cape from her shoulders as several lashed out against the door to Jaina’s quarters and secured its latching. “I will ask you only once more,” she growled, face burning with fury. **“Where. Is. She.”**

Katherine stared up at her, pale and wide-eyed like a doe caught in a hunter’s trap. The answer came hoarse and guilty. “You’re too late. Whatever it is you wish of her — she’s out of your reach.”

“Do not presume to know what I am capable of, Lady Proudmoore,” she warned. “For your own sake. Now _speak_.”

“Not even the Banshee Queen would dare set foot on Fate’s End,” Katherine mumbled. “You wouldn’t make it out alive...or dead.”

A chill rose along Sylvanas’ spine. Fate’s End. _Thros_. The Blighted Lands. The cursed realm of Gorak Tul. Her claws itched to sink into Katherine’s chest; to pry that wretched heart from within the woman’s body, but she knew Jaina would never forgive her. 

“You sentenced your own daughter — your last living _child_ —”

“I didn’t know!” Katherine cried. “I didn’t know Priscilla would ever —”

Sylvanas’ eyes blazed, daring her to speak more lies, but Katherine merely swallowed back her words.

“Your daughter returned in an act of goodwill and guilt for the sins of her father before her. She returned to her homeland prepared to suffer as a criminal despite her better judgement. She knew the outcome would be bleak, but to do _this_. All because she held some misplaced hope that you would be sensible enough to listen.”

Katherine’s face twisted briefly, caught between agony, shame and grief before it smoothed over with indifference. “What does it matter to _you_ , monster?”

It was then that Sylvanas laughed. Cruelly. “My dear Lady Proudmoore,” she cooed, though the sweetness of her voice promised only a slow and painful torment. “It matters to _you_ ; that my love for Jaina is the only thing staying my hand from killing you where you stand.”

Katherine blanched. “You l—”

She wasted no more time. Pulling the shadows around her, she disappeared in a great whirl of power, a low, building Wail echoing in her wake.

\------

The shores of Fate’s End all but bristled with ancient power. Encompassing and overbearing enough to almost make her skin crawl. Almost. She strode through the cloying fog with single-minded purpose; single-minded intent. There was a figure coalescing in the distance — made of the earth and wood bridling with old magic.

Her voice carried on the fog and mist, echoing and sharp. “High Thornspeaker.”

The great beast regarded her with no expression, its voice like the grating bark and stone. “How curious. You are no mainlander. No living creature of this earth. Who dares —”

“I have no qualms with your kin,” she said briskly. “There is a being here not meant for the realm. Return her to me and I will leave you in peace.”

“None who have entered Thros have ever returned. Some pathways are best left closed, lest those on the other side set foot upon them.”

_“Oh, we are well past peeking, old bear.”_

The voice made Sylvanas bristle like a cat; she took Deathwhisper in hand and spun about, nocking an arrow.

“Gorak Tul!” the old bear gasped. “It cannot be!”

“Spare your exclamations for later,” Sylvanas spat, shedding her earthly figure and pulling into the mist and shadows of her banshee form. “We end this now.”

She slaughtered her way through them all; she did not stop to think. She did not care to do so. All she cared to think of was Jaina. By the time the shadows were beaten back, the path was clear.

The old bear approached her warily, gleaming eyes peering into her face with thought. “Your powers...they will help you after all.”

“Gorak Tul will not stand in my way,” she murmured, glancing at him sidelong. “Open the path, Thornspeaker.”

“I am called Ulfar,” he said. “And I shall guide you. Perhaps you may yet succeed in your quest.”

\-----

The land of Thros was almost cold enough to chill her. It reeked of ancient magic and old earth; corrupt and rotting like sunken ships eaten away by salt and time. She moved carefully but with haste.

A flash of movement caught her and she jerked — a figure. A child. Sylvanas knew that fair hair and bright blue eyes.

_“It’s...all my fault…”_

“Jaina,” she said, but the vision fled, its sobs echoing in the hollow space.

_“Warchief!”_

Sylvanas whirled about, daggers in hand, teeth bared — then paused in genuine surprise. “Lady Proudmoore,” she said, eyeing the figure warily. Was it yet another phantom? “What are you doing here?”

Katherine swallowed back a breath, eyes darting about them in muted fear. “The Tidesages still serve our family with loyalty. Brother Pike showed me the way. An Alliance champion escorted me, but — they sacrificed their life for mine.”

Scowling, she sheathed her knives. “That doesn’t explain why you’re here; only how.”

Quietly, Katherine said, “Jaina is my daughter. I’ve failed her enough. She is here somewhere...suffering. I won’t leave her to suffer any longer.”

“By your own doing,” Sylvanas replied harshly, spinning on her heels and marching forward into the mist. “Keep up, Lady Proudmoore. Vengeful spirits have no sympathy for belated guilt.”

They ventured deeper and deeper within the realm; plagued by each haunting memory of Jaina's life. Sylvanas knew these ghosts all too well, knew their insidious whispers and bristled at them when they dared to encroach on her personal space. The corrupted arcane and fel magic that fueled her kept them at bay, but every step they took weighed heavier and heavier on Katherine.

The anguish on Jaina’s mother’s face was almost something to relish — had it not come at the heels of Jaina’s own pain. Sylvanas’ ears flicked and flattened to her skull as she continued onwards, baring her teeth and hissing when shimmering figures appeared.

_“You let your personal biases taint the Kirin Tor! I was a fool to think you could be our leader!”_

Katherine let out a pained moan. “My dearest Jaina...reason alone cannot dictate all of your choices. If you abandon your feelings, only an empty darkness will remain.”

The irony was almost enough to make Sylvanas laugh. “They lied to her,” she growled. “She was nothing more than a scapegoat.” She lifted a hand and set her tendrils upon the phantom of Rhonin, curling her fist tight until they wound in purple chains around him.

Rhonin made a monstrous roar, splitting apart and crumbling like a fine china vase. He fell away into nothing; but so did Jaina.

Sylvanas swore under her breath and strode ahead quickly. They encountered Daelin Proudmoore; his voice booming and dripping with accusation. It made her bristle openly with the way Jaina cowered, the guilt that bled off the mage’s shoulders as Varian Wrynn took his place.

**_“You were at my side in the Undercity. We had them cornered! Justice was within my grasp! I could have ended them all! Sylvanas... Thrall... Think what our world could have been without them and their twisted Horde! But you... You stayed my blade. How many Alliance soldiers died that day? And in all the battles that followed?”_ **

_“They did nothing to deserve it then!”_ Jaina cried. _“You can’t kill them for the sake of hindsight. The Horde has suffered the same as us.”_

“Don’t waste your breath,” Sylvanas said, though she knew Jaina could not hear. “The Alliance will always justify the death of my people. Forsaken and Horde.” She nocked an arrow and aimed for Varian’s throat. Levelling Deathwhisper, she fired.

He fell with a roar of outrage, crumbling to his knees. **_“We will not be denied...our vengeance…”_ **

Sylvanas took some vicious pleasure of kicking his form into nothingness. “Be quiet, old man. Go in peace while I’m generous enough to grant you it.”

Katherine trailed after her wordlessly, eyes haunted and thoughtful. “Seeking an end to bloodshed is a noble pursuit. I wish her father could have learned that lesson.”

“There is a saying we share,” Sylvanas said, trekking onwards quickly. “About old dogs and new tricks. And letting sleeping dogs lie.”

“Yes,” Katherine replied faintly. “The past is the past. Jaina shouldn’t need to bear it all on her shoulders.” Her head shot up abruptly then, eyes sharp. “I hear something.”

Sylvanas’ ears swivelled intently. She could hear nothing but the low howls of the wind.

Katherine’s eyes widened. “Daelin!”

**_“You stood and watched as those animals cut me down. What has your betrayal earned you?”_ **

A familiar voice came, trembling and thick. _“Father... please…”_

**_“They took your father...betrayed your king...and you did nothing! Will you abandon all your allies to the Horde?”_ **

Sylvanas rushed forward — there. A fountain. A familiar place. Daelin Proudmoore and Jaina.

**_“You have always been naive, my daughter.”_ **

_“I won't let you do it, father!”_

Sylvanas snarled as Daelin lifted a hand — bracing tense as he swept it down abruptly between him and Jaina. 

_“You don't understand!”_ Jaina begged.

Daelin sneered and lifted eerie milky eyes that honed in on Sylvanas with startling lucidity. **_“I understand more than you suspect, my dear.”_ **

Sylvanas met them without fear, ears pressed flat to her skull as she bared her teeth in a hiss. Her hand reached for a dagger; she flung without thought or care, only instinct as it tore through the imperious face of Daelin Proudmoore.

“She couldn’t save him…” Katherine mumbled, with dawning realisation. “From himself.”

“I’m starting to see that Jaina’s tendencies for martyrdom is a family trait,” she drawled.

A spectre of Jaina took shape in the middle of a hollow. The lost, helpless look on her face was too real, too raw and searching that it stirred an ache in Sylvanas’ chest.

She made to move forward — then froze entirely.

That armour. That wretched _face_.

The shadows came alive around her, writhing like snakes and hungry limbs as her banshee form strained beneath her skin.

**_“We're too late. This entire city must be purged.”_ **

Jaina stepped back, shaking her head slowly. “I’m sorry, Arthas. I can’t watch you do this.”

Arthas’ face twisted then, colour draining from his skin, his hair, his armour. Everything bleeding away to ice. **_“You’ve been tainted, Jaina. I can smell it on you. You reek of their corruption — of_ ** **_her_ ** **_touch.”_ **

_“Arthas, please,”_ Jaina begged. _“This is madness.”_

 **_“Madness?”_ ** he hissed, as his eyes began to glow. **_“I will show you the true meaning of madness.”_ **

**“You will not have her!”** Sylvanas roared. She burst forth with a shriek, unravelling into her banshee form, claws outstretched. Her tendrils wound viciously around him, a cloak of darkness engulfing him as he struggled and kicked and swore at her. She tore into him incandescent fury, growing brighter and stronger with each pass of her claws into his flesh. She split his grinning mouth, took his glowing eyes and at last — ripped his blackened heart from his chest.

Arthas slumped forward onto his knees, maimed and mauled, unseeing eyes staring at them as Sylvanas coalesced before him.

 **_“Madness,”_ **he mumbled, with a jaw barely clinging on by a sinew.

Sylvanas curled her lip and spat at him; it landed on his cheek, like a tear. Then the Menethil prince was gone.

_“S-Sylvanas…? Is that...really you?”_

She turned to the figure; the spectre that seemed unwilling to fade away the same as the others. She stepped closer slowly, reaching out a hand.

Pale and drawn, Jaina recoiled, flinching as she turned wounded eyes at them both; Katherine and Sylvanas. She staggered back slightly, bringing her hands up to her ears. _“Please,”_ she whispered. _“I’ve heard enough. Don’t bring them into this, too.”_

“She thinks we’re ghosts,” Katherine breathed. “She thinks we’re here to condemn her.” She stepped closer to Jaina, gentling her voice into a maternal coo. “Jaina, darling, it’s us. It’s me.”

Jaina shook her head, chest heaving with rising panic.

Sylvanas stepped forward, reaching up to caress Jaina’s face tenderly. She watched as pale lashes flickered, blue eyes darting up nervously, and felt a pang in her chest. 

“Dalah’surfal,” she whispered, stroking Jaina’s cheek. “I’m here.”

Jaina’s breath came in a gasp, eyes widening as the colour began to return to her cheeks. She pressed it eagerly into Sylvanas’ hand, reaching up with trembling hands to cradle it against her skin.

“Sylvanas,” she whispered, breathless with wonder. “You’re really here.”

“I promised you,” Sylvanas said, brushing Jaina’s hair back behind an ear gently. “Not even death would keep us apart.” She turned slightly and jerked her head towards where Katherine watched on; awkward and unsure.

Jaina gasped quietly, casting a darting look between them. “Mother…?” She waited for no answer, only threw herself into Katherine’s arms as well.

Katherine held on tightly, burying her face into Jaina’s hair as she caressed it with her hand. “My girl,” she sighed. “We have much to speak of. Could you ever forgive me, my dear?”

Sylvanas gave Jaina’s arm a squeeze. “We must go,” she said. “There will be time for reconciliation after we leave this cursed realm.”


	13. First fight over a stupid thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: First fight over a stupid thing

Thermodynamic compatibility. That’s what people called it. A compatibility in the way their bodies generated and desired heat and chill respectively. It was almost ironic; almost some laughable humour of the universe — that she and Sylvanas went so well together.

Sleeping in the same bed had taken some getting used to. It was clear that neither of them had much experience with bed-sharing. Not in recent times, at least.

Jaina ran hot in the nights and sprawled in her sleep. Sylvanas, though seemingly unaffected by the chill most times, was an awful blanket hog.

“Get a second set of blankets,” Jaina said one night. “You always steal the covers — even when I’m wrapped in them.”

“You kick them off the bed,” Sylvanas replied. “And you snore.”

Jaina flushed indignantly. “I do not!”

Sylvanas arched a brow and glanced at the bed pointedly. “You know there’s a perfectly simple solution to our bedroom troubles.”

“And what would that be?”

Sylvanas gestured at herself and at Jaina. “You. Me. The bed. The blanket.”

Rolling her eyes, Jaina drawled, “I can’t believe I never thought of that.”

“I meant sleeping,” Sylvanas huffed. “You and I. Together. You bleed heat through the night. And you hog the bed. I’m an elf. I’m naturally inclined to warmth.”

Jaina eyed her warily. “Are you really suggesting that we cuddle?”

Sylvanas shrugged, lips curving into a coy smirk. “I just thought you’d like a proper reason to climb all over me —”

“Okay, alright. That’s enough out of you.”

They did eventually manage to settle under the covers together. Pressed stiffly against one another at first, shoulder-to-shoulder, flat on their backs, until Sylvanas made an irritable sigh. “Turn over.”

“Wh—”

“Turn over.”

“Why do I have to be the little spoon?”

“I’m taller than you.”

“Height is not an excuse. And I’m only shorter by an _inch_.”

“By several inches. Now are you going to roll over or not?”

“I want to big spoon.”

“You kick in your sleep.”

“And I can kick when I’m awake too. Do you want to sleep together or not?”

Huffing, Sylvanas rolled onto her side and tugged the covers up over their shoulders after Jaina was pressed snugly behind her.

“Tomorrow _I’m_ spooning _you_.”

“Fine. But we get extra pillows. These ones are awful.”


	14. someone tries to kidnap Aeryn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Someone tries to kidnap Aeryn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -inhales deeply-
> 
> warning for brief mentions of disfigurement (?) and a whole lot of angst and PPD and generally Unhappy Things with a Slightly Happy/Hopeful Ending

Motherhood wasn’t something easily adjusted to for someone as work-driven as Jaina. Never mind the fact that motherhood had come to her by obligation for the most part; she simply wasn’t the mothering type. She loved Aeryn. Of course she did. She also deeply appreciated the fact that there was never a shortage of nannies to mind her daughter while she managed the kingdom.

There was also the fact that Sylvanas seemed to enjoy having the babe attached to her as often as possible.

Of course, she couldn’t _always_ have Aeryn with her. Much to Sylvanas’ dismay.

On a particularly bustling day, Jaina sat in her study, frantically alternating between reports and meetings and legislature. Her study was a revolving door of people seeking signatures or audiences. Every so often, she would cast a glance at the playpen tucked against the window (baby-proofed and warded) where the toddler babbled and dozed intermittently.

It was a lucky thing that Aeryn was such a compliant baby. Everyone said so. She was shy and sweet, though shy at first. Perhaps it was something innate in her that knew that she could get her way with her mothers, but Jaina could hardly ever get in a report without having to hold her.

By the time midday came around, Jaina was elbow-deep in paperwork. When the baby began to fuss and whine for attention, she looked up with a sigh.

“Just a moment, Aeryn,” she said wearily. “Just let me finish this and I’ll get you.”

Aeryn let out an insistent whimper, pulling herself up to standing against the railings of the playpen. Her wide blue eyes stared at Jaina imploringly, lower lip trembling in a pout.

“Mama,” she burbled, reaching out a pudgy hand.

Jaina sighed. “I’m almost done, darling. Just a moment.”

There was a quiet knock at the door before a nanny scurried in, curtseying. “Pardon, m’lady. The Warchief sent me to collect the wee princess.”

Swallowing back a sigh of relief, Jaina waved her in distractedly. “Yes, thank you. I won’t be long. Tell Sylvanas I’ll be around in a bit.”

The nanny nodded, curtseying once more before sweeping Aeryn into her arms. The baby whimpered at first, squirming in her arms, but Jaina barely glanced their way.

“Be a good girl for your nanny,” Jaina murmured over her shoulder, eyes focused intently at the report at hand. “I’ll see you later.”

Time passed at an indefinable rate then. Report after report cleared from her desk. Ledgers checked and signed off. Tomes and grimoires carefully studied and transcribed. Eventually, the silence of the room began to creep into the periphery of her senses; her ears too attuned to the noises of her daughter.

Jaina startled slightly at the knock on her door. She turned, expecting to see the nanny and Aeryn, only to find Sylvanas striding into the room. She blinked. 

“I wanted to check with you,” Sylvanas began, pointing to a parchment in her hand. “I don’t see Whisperwind’s signature on the agreements about the trade routes moving inwards into Ashenvale.”

“She hasn’t seen it yet. The meeting’s not till tomorrow, remember? That draft is just for you to look at,” Jaina said, rising out of her seat. Her back and shoulders ached viciously; how long had she been sitting? She craned her neck from side-to-side and winced, reaching up to knead at the stiffness building in her nape. There was another ache building in her chest, a pointed fullness that brought something other than paperwork to mind.

“Where’s Aeryn? I think she’s due for a feeding.”

Sylvanas blinked and stared. “What are you talking about? Isn’t she with you?”

Jaina stared back in confusion. “A nanny took her a while ago. To you.”

Sylvanas’ eyes widened before glazing in cold realisation. “I never sent anyone for her.”

A pit of horror rose from Jaina’s gut into her throat. The panic in her voice was impossible to hide. “Guards! _Guards!_ ”

Sylvanas let out a low curse, disappearing in a swirl of mist. Her Wail echoed through the halls amidst the clamour of sentry men shouting among themselves in alarm. **_“Rangers, to me!”_ **

Jaina threw open the door in a wild rush. “Sound the alarm!” she cried, breaking into a full sprint. “Lockdown the city! The princess is missing!”

\-------

Jaina paced the War Room anxiously, chewing her thumbnail down to the skin. The Horde and Alliance were gathered with her, murmuring urgently among themselves. Sylvanas stood motionless beside her, eyes like unholy infernos; jaw set so tight she could almost hear the creak of her wife’s bones.

“We’ve looked everywhere,” Bloodhoof said. “Our scouts have reported nothing out of the ordinary. No one has reported any sightings.”

She shook her head incredulously. “No, that can’t be. I — I tried to trace the tracker in her anklet but i-it didn’t — there wasn’t —” Her head swam at the thought, bile burning in her throat too much to even speak of the very possibility. 

Sylvanas’ fists tightened hard enough for her gauntlets to creak. “My rangers are searching through the city as we speak.” She glanced sidelong at Jaina sharply. 

Anduin cleared his throat quietly. “Has there been a ransom?”

Jaina shook her head.

“They must want vengeance for something,” Genn insisted. “We should be out there looking for her, not sitting in here talking about it!”

“If Jaina can’t trace her, it’s likely that whoever took her knew about the tracker,” Anduin murmured. “Someone who knew how to block it.” He met Jaina’s gaze grimly. “Unless…”

Jaina looked away, shaking her head vehemently. “No. _No._ I would know if they hurt her. I would know if she’s —” The word caught in her throat.

“The outlook is often...bleak when there is no ransom,” Bloodhoof said.

“Hold your tongue,” Sylvanas hissed, lips curling back to reveal the gleam of her fangs. “If you must speak, then speak of things that would be useful to us.”

Greymane grunted. “They could have taken her out of the city by now. We should mount a search into the nearby townships. They could be anywhere at this point! There are portals all over the blasted place.”

“How did they even get to her in the first place?” Anduin shook his head in bewilderment.

Sylvanas made a low noise of warning. “ _Focus_ , Little Lion. It is no longer a question of _how_. It is a question of what we are doing to return her where she belongs.”

“It is entirely important to understand _how_ ,” Anduin pressed. “The last thing we want is for Aeryn to ever be taken again. We have to know where we’ve failed to protect her.”

Jaina could feel Sylvanas’ eyes sliding towards her, but could not bring herself to meet them. Her own eyes burned with tears that pushed desperately behind her lids. The burgeoning ache of them were almost inescapable. If she had paid more attention; if she hadn’t been so damned busy —

“Anduin’s right,” she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut as she steeled herself. “They have a right to know what happened.”

_“That,”_ Sylvanas forced out slowly, eyes narrowing into a glare. “Is none of their concern for the moment. Tell them what you like _after_ we find her.”

Greymane eyed them suspiciously. “What don’t you want her to tell us, banshee?”

Sylvanas glowered at him, gritting her teeth. “Unhelpful information. Finding Aeryn is our utmost priority.”

“I’d rather decide for myself what’s useful and what’s not,” he retorted.

A low growl bubbled from Sylvanas’ throat that burst forth in a snarl of frustration. “Tell them what you like,” she spat, spinning on her heels. “I won’t waste what little time we have pointing fingers instead of searching for her.” She marched out of the war room, doors slamming shut in her wake.

Jaina flinched, peering at the gathered council. They watched her, wary and expectant, and she sagged with defeat.

“Please,” she begged. “Just bring her home. I — I just need her to come home.”

\-------

It was hours before Jaina heard news of her wife’s whereabouts. They scoured the city and its neighbouring towns, all but threatened every mercenary guild they knew of for any information they could. A shout rose among the guards, a messenger astride a horse.

“They’ve found her! They’ve found the princess!”

She nearly swooned with relief. “Where is she? Where are they?”

“The Keep, m’lady. The Warchief’s got ‘er —”

Jaina didn’t bother hearing the rest. She tore open a portal and staggered through, barely breathing as her eyes scanned their rooms desperately. They fell upon the familiar silhouette of her wife, illuminated against the moonlight in the balcony doorway. The shape of a little figure cradled in Sylvanas’ arms. 

She almost fell to her knees.

She stumbled forwards, tears brimming in her eyes as she broke into a watery smile. “Oh, thank the Gods —”

Sylvanas turned to her slowly, peering sidelong with an indifference that made Jaina’s spine run cold. The Warchief’s armour was speckled in blood, streaks staining leather. 

In her arms, she cradled their daughter. Swaddled in her cape, nestled within maroon.

Jaina swallowed. “I-is she —”

Flatly, Sylvanas said, “She’s alive.”

The brusqueness of her wife’s tone did little to soothe Jaina. “Is she alright?” she pressed anxiously, stepping closer. She grasped Sylvanas’ arm and peered into the bundle —

Then recoiled in horror.

“Gods,” she choked. Her knees trembled, threatened to buckle beneath her, but Jaina forced herself still. “What have they _done to her?”_

Sylvanas gave her a withering look, gathering Aeryn closer and turning away, but the image would haunt Jaina for the rest of her days. 

“Let me see her,” Jaina demanded, arms outstretched. “Let me hold my child.”

Sylvanas pursed her lips, ears pressed flat against her skull, eyes reproachful. Still, she obeyed, reluctantly surrendering Aeryn into Jaina’s embrace. “Be gentle,” she warned. “Her wounds are still tender. I did what I could to regenerate her flesh. She’s been sedated to keep her comfortable.”

Jaina curled her arms carefully around their daughter, fingers trembling as she pushed back Sylvanas’ cape from Aeryn’s head.

Their daughter’s beautiful face, once pink and flushed with life — now bore the mottled grey flesh of the Undead. Half of her face had regenerated, but there remained a split, almost perfectly symmetrical. Aeryn squirmed slightly, brows furrowing as her now-pale, blue-tinged lips curved into a moue.

At last, the tears began to run freely down her face. Her chest heaved with a cacophony of emotions; grief, guilt, relief, anger as she pulled Aeryn close and sobbed.

“This is all my fault,” she croaked, burying her face into Aeryn’s hair. “I did this to her. This wouldn’t have happened if I’d just —”

A hand gripped her elbow. Through a blur of tears, Jaina could see the harsh look on Sylvanas’ face; the pain in those red eyes. “Lay her down. Let her rest.”

Jaina sniffled, squeezing Aeryn gently as she shuffled slowly back into the room. She was reluctant to release their daughter, hovering beside the cradle for a moment before the hand on her elbow squeezed again.

With great care, Jaina lowered Aeryn into the cradle, tucking the blankets snugly around their daughter.

Sylvanas stood beside her, watching with hawkish eyes.

Summoning the Light into her fingertips, Jaina reached out a hand to Aeryn’s face. “I can try to heal her — I can fix this —”

Sylvanas snatched her hand away. “ _Don’t._ ” The growl in the word kept Jaina in place. “Part of her is Undead now. It will only make things worse.”

Tugging her hand free, Jaina stared down at Aeryn’s face. “What did they do to her?” she whispered.

“We don’t know,” Sylvanas replied stiffly. “From what we can understand — they poisoned her with something. Though I doubt that was their intention to begin with. They must have panicked when the guards sounded the alarm.”

“How extensive is the...damage? Can she still see with her left eye? Can she still hear?”

“We don’t know,” Sylvanas repeated, with rising ire. “We will have to consult a priest in the morning. You should send word ahead to Wrynn that we may need his services should necromancy fail to provide us with the results we want.”

Jaina shook her head incredulously. “Why bother with a priest or Anduin if I can do both? I’ve mastered enough fel magic to heal even you. I can heal her.”

Sylvanas levelled her with a hard look. “Aeryn has gone through enough for a day. She needs to rest.”

A protest edged dangerously from the tip of her tongue, but Jaina bit the inside of her cheek to keep it in place. Instead, she asked, “How did you find her?”

“I didn’t,” Sylvanas said. “Alina found her. Abandoned in a barrel by a tavern.”

“A barrel,” Jaina gasped. Discarded like trash, hidden away to suffer in darkness alone. “Who were they? What did they want with her?”

“What every rebel has ever wanted since her conception.”

“Did they get away?”

Sylvanas gave her a dark look, the shadows pulling inwards around them slightly. “I would not have allowed it.”

Jaina let out a shuddering breath, gripping the edge of the cradle hard enough for her knuckles to whiten. She turned her eyes up to Sylvanas, burning still from shed tears. She searched her wife’s face, swallowing back the ache of seeing exactly what she had expected — anger. Blame.

Distrust.

“Sylvanas,” she whispered, reaching out hesitantly to touch the Warchief’s wrist. Though she expected it, she still flinched when Sylvanas jerked out of reach. The tremor of tears in her voice could not be concealed. “Sylvanas, please. I’m so sor—”

Sylvanas swept a hand sharply through the air between them. “Spare me,” she uttered, disdain curling the edge of her lip. “I know you’re sorry. I know you’re guilt-ridden. I know it will never happen again, because I will never allow it to happen again.”

“Then why are you punishing me?” Jaina asked, and loathed the way her voice broke into a whine at the end. “Don’t you think I feel terrible enough already? Don’t you think I’m as heartbroken as you?”

Sylvanas glanced sidelong at her, unreadable. Cold. “I don’t know what to think,” the Banshee Queen said. “I only know that you never wanted Aeryn to begin with. And that she went missing while under your care.”

Jaina’s breath hitched. That much was true. She couldn’t deny that she hadn’t bonded with their daughter as Sylvanas had when Aeryn was born. But to suggest that she would somehow _dispose_ of their child —

“You think I wanted her to be kidnapped?” she whispered. “You think I planned this somehow?”

Sighing, Sylvanas finally turned to her. It was then that Jaina could see the depth of emotion on her wife’s face. The agony of someone who had already mourned enough for ten lifetimes. Agony that she had put there herself with her own carelessness.

Wearily, Sylvanas said, “I know you had nothing to do with it. I know you care for her.”

“But you don’t trust me with her anymore.” It was clear enough.

Sylvanas frowned. “Do you really expect me to?” She gestured down into the cradle. “She could have _died_ , Jaina. If it hadn’t been for Alina, who knows what would’ve happened to her. And now she must live with the constant reminder that we _failed_ her.”

She paused and looked away sharply, heaving a sigh as she flexed her hands at her sides. Sylvanas swallowed thickly. “I will not outlive another child,” she said. “I will not fail again.”

Jaina reached out, but Sylvanas pulled away from her touch once more. The chasm between them was growing wider, deeper. She wasn’t sure if they would ever conquer it again. Instead, she stepped back and watched as Sylvanas bent and carefully tucked Aeryn into an arm.

Her fingers twitched at her side, aching to reach out for their daughter. To provide what little comfort she could, whether with her magic or simply her breast. But Sylvanas held their daughter with the protectiveness of a lioness crouched over her cubs, brimming with the same unpredictable and wild instinct.

“Where are you taking her?”

“My study. I will watch her. You should rest as well, wife.” The word made something curdle in Jaina’s stomach. She was hardly deserving of the title now. “It has been a trying day for everyone.”

“I won’t sleep a wink without her near me,” she said, edging closer to Sylvanas. “You can say you don’t blame me, but I know you do. I don’t care if you do; I deserve it. But you can’t keep her from me like this. It’s cruel and unfair.”

Sylvanas paused, barely glancing back. At length then, she sighed. “I will lay her on the bed,” she muttered.

Gratefully, Jaina nodded. They came together on the bed, Aeryn nestled securely between them beneath the covers. Curled onto their sides and watching the baby keenly. Up close, the extent of damage to the baby’s face and body was that much clearer, and each inch of ashen, hollow flesh made her chest twist viciously.

She reached out and laid a hand gingerly on the baby’s stomach, the steady rise and fall of Aeryn’s breaths a reassurance. Each breath the baby took seemed to loosen something in her chest, as Jaina’s own breaths began to shudder in her lungs and tears began to leak.

Sylvanas watched with a distinct amount of knowing but said nothing. Instead, she reached out and laid her hand over Jaina’s.

Jaina wept against the pillows until they were wet beneath her head. Until the exhaustion finally swept her under the waves of sleep.

She closed her eyes to the sight of their fingers entwined over their daughter’s chest.


	15. accessibility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: 
> 
> as a sign of good faith during peace negotiations, Jaina invents a few spells (w/ her brother as a willing test subject) for Sylvanas and the Forsaken. spells to help improve taste, for example. little things to help an undead get through the day a little easier, things that only the forsaken or those who lived with them would know about. basically Jaina helps with forsaken accessibility and Sylvanas not knowing what to do with that

It began, like most things, curiously. Or rather — with curiosity. It was a trait of hers that drew mixed results at times; more in her vibrant youth than in her middle age. Her mother once told her that she had enough curiosity to kill ten cats, and Jaina had worn it then with pride.

She learned, with time, to contain her curiosities. To apply them  _ scientifically _ ; because science allowed for more curiosity than she knew what to do with. Science was her excuse for setting the curtains on fire when she was nine.

Science was her excuse for portalling abruptly into the war room and landing on the table during a council meeting.

Science was why she stared so intently at Sylvanas Windrunner.

Or perhaps, more accurately — it was purely curiosity at that point. The Banshee Queen was an unreadable figure, an inscrutable force that left Jaina all but reeling with each passing day the Horde and Alliance drew closer and closer to sealing a peace treaty.

She never thought she'd live to see the day.

What she still couldn't quite put her finger on was — ironically — Sylvanas.

The Warchief did many things that were incomprehensible for one reason or another. But to Raise Derek — what could Sylvanas have possibly gained, short of perhaps tormenting them with the knowledge that she simply  _ could _ ?

Her reunion with Derek had been a tearful one; rife with things that neither of them could fully comprehend. Clutching her brother close, clinging to him tight, she caught the figure of the Warchief in her periphery; caught the strange melancholy on Sylvanas' face.

It was there for only an instant. Sylvanas' ear flicked, then her burning eyes flashed to meet Jaina's.

Jaina blinked and the Warchief was gone.

Reconnecting with her brother came in stages. Baby steps. They had become vastly different people — too changed to reminisce without sorrow in its wake.

Still, beneath it all, beneath his Undeath — Derek was still Derek.

Derek, who teased her fondly about all that he could. He who boldly tested the limitations of his Undead form in ways that brought back memories of a childhood spent clambering over tree branches and diving off cliffs.

"What does it  _ feel _ like?" she asked one day, when her curiosity became too much.

Derek paused, lifting his head to stare off into the horizon. “It feels like…living behind a curtain, honestly,” he confessed. “I feel  _ present _ …but my presence feels…” he shrugged. “ _ Muted _ , almost. As if I exist on only a fragment of this plane. I’m stronger than I ever was; I can  _ do  _ things I couldn’t even imagine.”

Jaina ducked her head to meet his eyes encouragingly. It was still unsettling, in some way, to look into her brother’s face and see the burning unnatural shade of his gaze. “But…?”

“But I do miss it,” he sighed, a wistful look on his face. “Eating, drinking.  _ Sleeping _ . I’m never tired, but sleeping’s never just been about being tired, has it? I’d like the privilege of choosing whether or not I want to rest.”

Jaina felt that deeply.

She blinked then, head tilting curiously. “Do you not taste things anymore? I’ve read some things about that, but I thought Forsaken  _ could  _ eat. And sleep. There were inns in the Undercity.”

“I understand about as much as you. Perhaps even less so,” he said, reaching out and squeezing her hand. He gave her a soft, self-deprecating little smile. “But here I am, lamenting the things I’ve lost when I should be grateful to even be here to begin with.”

She smiled at him faintly, though her mind was already reeling with thought. With the myriad of ways that she could — that she  _ should _ — help.

“…what if you  _ could _ do those things again?” she asked.

Derek paused and turned to stare at her curiously. Whatever it was that he saw there on her face made a knowing smile spread across his lips. “I know that look,” he said. “That’s a  _ science  _ look.”

Jaina smiled slowly. “Are you up for an experiment?”

“Always,” he said gamely. “Anything for science.”

\-----

They tried spells first. Little experiments of magic that Jaina imbued her brother with in slow, gentle touches. The Light burned, but too much arcane made Derek sway like a sailor drowning in his cups. Some spells rekindled  _ too much _ of Derek’s living form; made him inescapably aware of the damage his body had borne. 

The agony on her brother’s face made for many sleepless nights and haunted dreams.

“This one makes everything smell,” he said one today.

Jaina brightened hopefully. “Good smells?”

“Like eggs.”

“Eggs?”

“Farty eggs. Like kippers in the morning.”

Jaina huffed and waved her hands briskly to recall the spell. “Maybe a potion instead.”

It took her another few weeks to pull together a functioning elixir. Nights spent hunched over her desk, sleeping with her cheek pressed to page after page of notes from ancient tomes and books helpfully “borrowed” from the vast library of Stormwind City.

Derek watched her some days, peering over her shoulder like a curious child at the window of a bakery. She indulged him as much as her patience would allow; until eventually his persistent questions and hovering made her all too aware of the cramped space of her temporary rooms in the Keep.

“How about you sit,” she said, jerking her chin at the plush armchair by the fireplace. “Tell me about what it’s been like since you’ve...Risen.”

Derek peered at her wordlessly but obliged, settling himself comfortably into the armchair. “What exactly do you want to know?”

Jaina shrugged. “Anything, I suppose. Everything? The Forsaken are an enigma to us. The Warchief most of all.”

“I don’t have anything to report,” he drawled. “She never spoke of plans to double-cross the Alliance, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

“I just meant as a  _ person _ ,” she replied in exasperation. “What was the Warchief like...up close?”

Derek blinked and sat back into the armchair, staring for a few thoughtful moments into the fireplace. At length, he said, “She’s a lot kinder than you would think. When I first... _ Awoke _ ...she was there. She wouldn’t leave me until she was sure I could manage it on my own.”

“Manage what?”

“Existing, I suppose.” He twisted around in the armchair and peered at her over the back. “Did you know; she said I led her to my body?”

Jaina blinked. “What?”

“My soul, that is. She said she could hear it. She could hear all of us.” Derek’s voice softened with thought, and something like pity. “All of the souls lost at sea. The ones who never made peace with it. The ones who refused to rest.”

Incredulous, she asked, “She can do that?”

Derek nodded sagely. “So it seems.”

“Hmm.”

Eventually, she held out a vial of something that looked like it was made of something between the aether and sewage water. “Here.”

He took it in hand, tilting the vial this way and that and swirling it gently. “Couldn’t it have looked like a pint of mead or something? Why do all potions have to look like bog water?”

“ _ Derek _ .”

“Fine, fine,” he huffed, bringing the vial to his lips —

“Just a sip, first,” she warned, eyes wide with apprehension. “Hold it on your tongue for a moment and let it coat your mouth before you swallow.”

He complied with a slight nod and Jaina watched as Derek’s jaw moved in a slow flex; as if he were considering a particular vintage of port. His glowing eyes blinked in surprise and he pulled the vial away to stare down at it thoughtfully. “Doesn’t taste as awful as it looks.”

Jaina’s eyes lit up eagerly. “So you  _ can  _ taste?”

Derek opened his mouth to reply, then winced hard. “Yes,” he croaked, glaring down at the vial in betrayal. “Farty eggs and kippers.” He stuck out his tongue and tried to scrape the taste off it with his teeth.

“Are you sure you’re not just confused with the smell of the sea?”

He gave her an exasperated look and corked the vial. “I think I’d know what the sea smells like.”

Jaina sighed, reaching up to run a hand through the already-tousled mess of her hair. “Back to the drawing board.”

Their success plateaued for a time; there was nothing more that Jaina could do that yielded any further result, and the frustration was building. She took to wandering the stress of Stormwind, watching the Forsaken as they bustled about. They were wary still — all of them, but the Forsaken moved with darting glances over their shoulders and the reflexive flinch of beings long-accustomed to violence.

Some mornings, she dared to test her tongue at Gutterspeak; pulling what little Derek had managed to teach her. They stared at her at first, eyeing her with open distrust and hostility that made her wonder if the words her brother had taught her weren’t inflammatory somehow.

Still, she persevered, walking among the Horde by herself when she could. Most meetings between the Alliance and Horde ran long, and there were some evenings when she would catch the glimpse of rich purple and feathered armour around the bend when she walked.

Sometimes, she would catch the Warchief’s eye as she passed. Sylvanas’ eyes gleamed at her brightly, watching as a cat would at a passing flicker of light before nodding once in greeting.

For how distant she was from the Banshee Queen, Derek seemed to have no qualms with approaching Sylvanas.

At times, she saw them talking — in quiet asides that halted abruptly the moment any other individual came within earshot, and it prodded at Jaina’s curiosity once more.

“I never thought I’d see you so friendly with the Warchief,” she remarked one day.

Derek shrugged. “She brought me back. For whatever reason. And despite what anyone might think...she... _ cares _ .”

_ “Cares?” _

“Ask her yourself,” he replied, nudging her in the shoulder.

She didn’t, only kept her efforts of mingling with the Forsaken. Most were wary of her still, barely acknowledging her words or pointedly ignoring them.

Then one day, a Forsaken replied. His words were guttural and harsh in tone, but the words were almost...friendly. “Good morning. You must use your throat more.”

Jaina obliged readily and welcomed any and all criticism that came. Some were malicious and stung, but a majority of those who engaged her seemed...bewildered at her willingness to learn. “Haven’t others tried to learn Gutterspeak?” she asked.

The Forsaken shook his head. “Gutterspeak is beneath the Alliance, isn’t it? ‘Tis the language of us Forsaken.”

Pursing her lips, Jaina said, “All peoples should have a right to their own language.”

“Perhaps,” he replied, eyeing her with something less than hate.

Though most were wary but polite, not all members of the Horde were as accommodating. She dared to approach a warlock troll one day, blinking in surprise when he curled his lip and sneered at her.

“Why would I be sharin’ de secrets of da Horde wit’ ya?”

“Because I want to understand more about your people,” she replied staunchly. “I’m only trying to help —”

He barked out a laugh, the sound calling the attention of the nearby folk. Orc and goblin and trolls watched on, murmuring among themselves as Jaina fought back the embarrassment building in her belly.

“Leave her alone, Zaejin,” an orc said. “You’re not stupid enough to challenge the Lord Admiral.”

“Mebbe it be time someone did,” Zaejin growled back. In his hands, a dark, swirling ball of energy formed.

Jaina backed slowly away from them, smothering the prickle of arcane itching at her fingertips as more of the Horde began to gather. Something solid and cold bumped against her back and she helped softly, spinning around in alarm —

_ “Proudmoore.” _

She stiffened, staring up at burning red eyes.

Sylvanas peered down into her face impassively. A hand reached out and grasped her arm, steadying her in place. Those blazing eyes flashed back to the crowd. 

Before Jaina could speak — to explain, or perhaps protest — Sylvanas insinuated herself between them, all but looming over the warlock. “Have you any qualms with the Lord Admiral that I have not heard, Zaejin?”

The gathered Horde froze, darting nervous looks between them as they shuffled back. Zaejin bowed at the hip, refusing to lift his gaze from the ground. “Warchief. How are we ta trust de Lord Admiral’s intentions —”

“Has she given you cause for concern?” Sylvanas drawled. “Has she trod on your toes? Planned a military coup to usurp power while we are in peace talks with the Alliance?”

“Who knows with de likes o’ her,” Zaejin grumbled, casting a resentful look at Jaina.

“Then this peace treaty is a waste of time,” Sylvanas said. “If you’d like us to return to war, only say so, Zaejin. I shall leave the Lord Admiral to deal with your insubordination herself.”

At last, Jaina found her voice. “It’s alright,” she croaked, darting a slightly bewildered look between Sylvanas and Zaejin. “It’s understandable that he would be... _ wary  _ still. There is too much between our factions to expect everyone to be content with peace talks.”

Sylvanas’ ear flicked, her burning eyes flashing with amusement as she inclined her head. “That much is true. Regardless.” She reached out and laid a hand on Jaina’s shoulder, squeezing just so to leave the woman gaping wordlessly at her grip. Setting her eyes to the crowd, she said, “Let it be known; so long as we remain in Stormwind, the Lord Admiral is free to walk among the Horde with my blessing.”

A rich plume of power began to bleed from her shoulders effortlessly and Jaina fought back a shiver at the raw strength of it. “Have you any protests, warlock?”

Zaejin said nothing further, only glared. Boldly, Jaina reached out and touched Sylvanas’ elbow, casting a speaking look up at the Banshee Queen. “I think your point’s been made, Warchief. Let us do as you say and lay our animosities to rest.”

Wordlessly, and strangely, Sylvanas complied. “I shall escort you to your quarters, Lady Proudmoore.”

Jaina blinked. It didn’t exactly sound like an offer so much as a command, but she quelled the instinct to bristle and nodded mutely.

“Thank you,” she mumbled, when they were a fair distance away. “That was...unnecessary, but thank you.”

Sylvanas inclined her head; the weight of her hand lingered at the small of Jaina’s back. “If these peace talks are to bear fruit, we can’t have the Lord Admiral of Kul Tiras assaulted in the streets. And we can’t have you levelling half the street in retaliation.” Her eyes slid sidelong knowingly.

Jaina huffed. “I could have managed with a little more tact than that.”

“I have no doubt,” Sylvanas said. They walked on for a time in a stilted sort of silence, until the Warchief folded her arms behind her back and remarked idly, “How have your experiments been going?”

Jaina paused in her step and stared.

Shrugging, Sylvanas said, “Derek likes to talk.” It was strange to hear her brother’s name on such a foreign tongue. “I understand the desire to...process the state your brother returned to you in. Not many of the living had such a kind reception to their undead loved ones.”

“...He told me you gave him the choice to come back. Despite everything.” Jaina’s gaze was hard and searching, but not unkind.

Sylvanas’ ears swivelled and flicked, but there was nothing in her face that gave away the Warchief’s thoughts. She shrugged. “...I do not Raise those who do not wish to be raised. Not without purpose."

“And what was your purpose here?”

Sylvanas peered at her thoughtfully before turning back forward. “I did not raise him with the intention of misusing him. I know the stories the Alliance tells about my powers. My goals and aims.”

Her burning eyes slid sidelong to Jaina for a moment. Quietly, she said, “I will not lie and say that the possibility never crossed my mind. But the Forsaken have never been mine to use. They are my  _ kin _ , not my servants.”

The weight of Sylvanas’ words stunned Jaina; brought every story about the Dark Lady and her relationship with the Forsaken into question. Many thought her a tyrant — and she was, in many ways — but this was not one of them, it seemed.

Jaina ducked her head almost in shame before nodding once, meeting Sylvanas’ gaze steadily. “I believe you.”

Sylvanas made a noise in her throat, tilting her head curiously at Jaina. “...Does he regret it? Some do.”

“No,” Jaina replied, and the honesty of her response surprised even herself. “I don’t think he does. I think he’s...trying to adjust. And I want to help.”

Sylvanas nodded slowly. “Do let me know, should you require another test subject. I would be curious to see what you could achieve,” she said.

“Wh—?”

“If you require information from the High Necromancer, I shall provide it,” Sylvanas continued, pausing as they reached the tower. Glancing up at the spire, she turned to Jaina. “It is my duty as their leader, is it not? To ease their burdens. I would like to help, if I can.”

Jaina blinked rapidly, then found herself nodding. It was the only thing she could think to do. “Y-yes, alright — I — thank you??”

A slow, curling smile spread across Sylvanas’ face. “You’re welcome. Until another time, Lady Proudmoore.”


	16. first fight over a stupid thing 2.0

It wasn’t difficult to find things to be annoyed at Sylvanas about. They weren’t exactly the most compatible pair, but Jaina liked to believe that she’d been very generous with her tolerance since they’d been married. ‘Tolerating’ Sylvanas, though, proved to be a greater feat of patience than Jaina had first anticipated. She knew that the Warchief would go to some extremes just to annoy her. 

She expected it; if the warnings she’d received from Vereesa and Alleria about their sister’s wicked sense of humour and refusal to surrender were anything to go by In short — Jaina fully expected Sylvanas to annoy the living shit out of her. 

What she hadn’t expected was how…painfully tolerable Sylvanas as being. 

Frankly, it annoyed her more to know that Sylvanas was barely making any effort of acknowledging her existence at all. They shared a chamber for appearances’ sake, but Sylvanas was a rare one for the bedroom. Jaina was grateful in some sense, though there was still a strange and niggling sensation of loneliness in the cold nights. Despite her cutting tongue in the war room and desert drawl through audiences, Sylvanas was otherwise…pleasant. 

Not sharp. Not cruel. 

Not unnecessarily vicious in her treatment of Jaina or anyone else, for that matter.

Not exactly  _ present _ , either. If anything, the thing that galled Jaina the most about her wife was how absent Sylvanas was. One night, they sat together. Each at their respective desks within the adjoining study; desks that were pushed together and such that they were facing one another. Sylvanas was in her line of sight no matter how low she dipped her head to scrawl in her ledgers.

It was a rare night to see them together at such an hour, but tax season and temperamental harvests meant brokering new levies and negotiating relief efforts for farmers situated in more barren lands. The Warchief was perched in her seat, face was impassive as ever as she leafed through reports and signed each one with an idle scratch of her quill. She was leaned back in her seat, stretching out enough to sprawl somewhat languorously across it. She must have stretched out her legs as well, because Jaina felt them cross at the ankles beneath the desks. Then they nudged against a foot. Jaina arched a brow and moved her feet aside, pursing her lips. Sylvanas’ face did not move; she kept signing her papers. Then her feet tapped against Jaina’s ankle. Unwilling to feed the irritation brewing in her belly, Jaina crossed her own and tucked them primly beneath her seat.

She kept her attention on the report at hand, though the scratching of her quill became a touch more pointed. Sylvanas took in a breath and shifted in her seat, bracing an elbow against the armrest. Her black-tipped nails began to tap against the wood; sharp, punctuated beats that made Jaina’s ears ache and jaw set. It went on for a moment, though each passing second felt like an agony of time stretched between them.

“Stop that!” Jaina snapped, setting her quill down with a slap. “You’re making my ears hurt.”

Sylvanas arched a brow and curled her hand into a fist obligingly. She said nothing in return, only returned to skimming reports. But the sound of each flick of parchment suddenly seemed just as grating to Jaina’s ears; the scrape of each page and the warble of it in the air as they settled.

“Must you make so much noise when you read?” she ground out, glaring beneath her lashes at Sylvanas.

“It’s just paper,” Sylvanas replied, turning a page, eyes trained indifferently on the deep set of red ink on parchment. “If you must work in silence, you’re free to leave. The libraries were renovated for your leisure.”

“I wouldn’t need to move if you would just stop.”

An ear flicked at her mildly. “I can’t stop paper from making noise. If you have such trouble working in close quarters, then it might be wise to reconsider the clauses of our marriage.”

“You’re doing this on purpose,” she accused, huffing as she rose to her feet, pushing away from the desk indignantly. She began shuffling her papers together brusquely, stacking them into a haphazard pile in her arms. “If you’re going to act like a child, I’ll work in the library.”

“Childish behaviour, indeed,” Sylvanas drawled, eyeing her with something that was equally bright and steely. “I’m not the one between us throwing a tantrum at the slightest inconvenience.”

“I’m trying to work,” Jaina hissed, glaring viciously. “I can’t work around you.”

Lazily, Sylvanas replied, “You apparently can’t stand me regardless." She straightened upright in her seat as she set her reports aside. "You find my very presence infuriating. Clearly.”

Jaina paused, blinking incredulously at the Warchief. “I don’t — that’s not —!”

“Don’t bother wasting your breath, Proudmoore,” she said, mouth twisting into something wry. “I have no qualms with your hate. Despise me if you like.” She shrugged and began rearranging the stack of parchments at her elbow, shuffling papers between her hands again. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

A boulder of something cold and sobering settled in the depths of her belly. Jaina swallowed back the taste of bile in her throat and stared at Sylvanas as she found wherewithal to speak. “You think I hate you for fun?”

Again, Sylvanas shrugged. “We must all have our hobbies, I suppose.”

“I don’t hate you for  _ fun _ ,” Jaina insisted. “Of course you would think that. You think the worst of all of us. You just always — gods, you —”

“— apparently infuriate you to the point of fluster,” Sylvanas intoned.

Jaina slammed her reports back down onto the table. It didn’t matter that it made her all the more petulant. “You’re never  _ here _ !” she burst out. “You can’t infuriate me because you’re never around. You’re never in the room, and you barely find the effort to even pretend I exist outside of the council meetings.”

She could feel her cheeks burning from the heat of her fury, felt it coiling in her fists curled tightly at her sides.

Was it fury at that point or shame?

Sylvanas regarded her for a long, tenuous moment. “Is that all?”

_ Is that all? _

“Do I need more?”

“You could have just said that you wanted company,” Sylvanas mumbled, fussing with her reports. She stacked them and restacked them, tapping them against the table without there being need.

Nervous. Was the Dark Lady nervous?

“Is that what this is about? You think I’m not paying enough attention to you?”

“You’re not paying  _ any _ attention to me,” Jaina retorted. She wasn’t sure if it was bitterness or longing in her voice.

Sylvanas made a perplexed frown, tapping her papers against the desk one last time and setting them aside. “I can’t read your mind, Jaina,” she said mildly. “It’s not exactly easy to tell if you want my attentions or resent them.”

Folding her arms defensively, Jaina replied in a brisk tone, “I’m not expecting you to read my damn mind. I just expect you to at least pretend that we can be civil. Even if it’s just for show.”

“Haven’t I been civil?” Sylvanas asked quietly. “Do you want me to play at  _ affection _ ?” The roll of the word on her tongue made Jaina’s cheek heat unexpectedly. “Should I touch you, caress you;  _ kiss you _ , for the sake of appearances?”

Jaina swallowed back the frog in her throat. Still, she croaked, “We’re married. We should at least learn to tolerate one another if we’re going to stay married.”

“And how would you propose we do that?”

Huffing in frustration, she ran a hand through her hair, unravelling the already wild mane from her shoulders. “I don’t know. Talk, maybe.”

“We have precious little in common to share idle conversation.”

Jaina sighed in annoyance. “Do you have a better idea?”

Sylvanas said nothing. Only rounded the desks and grasped Jaina’s face.

The next thing she knew, she was being kissed.

It was a good kiss, as far as kisses went. Sylvanas’ lips were cool, colder than living flesh, but soft and fuller than expected. It was a good kiss, but a short kiss, and before Jaina could really think to do anything more than blink, it was over.

There was a pause; only an instant, but it was enough for her to stare up at burning red eyes in shock, but she couldn’t find the will to pull away.

Sylvanas released her face and stepped back awkwardly. “I should go.”

“Don’t you fucking dare.” She reached up in a surge, fisting Sylvanas’ tunic in hand and yanking the Warchief to her again.


	17. Sylvanas proposing to Jaina (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylvanas has an awful sense of timing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -climbs to the top of the nearest tree, clears throat-  
> -hoots in howler monkey-
> 
> NSFW NSFW NSFW NSFW NSFW NSFW NSFW NSFW NSFW NSFW NSFW NSFWNSFW NSFW NSFW NSFW NSFW NSFW NSFW NSFW NSFW N-
> 
> I promise I'm working on my other fics, I just had to get these out of my system or they'd fester inside me until I die

In hindsight, her timing could’ve been a little more tactful.

As someone with the reputation of being utterly anal-retentive when it came to punctuality and overbearing control as a leader of an enemy faction. As the master of an elite team of military. It was almost laughable to think that Sylvanas Windrunner could never be victim to her own impulses.

And yet, it still came tumbling out of her mouth. Like a greenling stuttering on her first day at training; like a tongue-tied teenager at her first ball.

It still came while she was seven inches deep inside Jaina Proudmoore.

Jaina who was pressed to the bed beneath her, sprawled out against the sheets, alabaster hair spread out in a halo on the pillows. Writhing and gasping, muffling cries around a white-knuckled fist.

Sylvanas grasped the backs of Jaina’s knees and pushed them further up and apart, folding her back into a position only made her moans come louder and higher.

“Tides, fuck —” Jaina flailed out the hand caught between her teeth and pressed it against Sylvanas’ chest, who revelled at the sight of the indentations left in their wake. “Oh, gods — Sylvanas —”

“Look at you,” she growled, baring her teeth and turning her lips to nip sharply at the leg that was all but perched on her shoulder. The toy between her hips was glistening; lewd and dark as it disappeared within flushed, swollen flesh. “Belore, Jaina —”

Jaina whined and slid her trembling hand down between her own legs, fumbling against where they were joined. “Oh gods, oh fuck — I’m so c-close —”

“Marry me,” Sylvanas blurted, moving faster and deeper. “Marry me, Jaina.”

Heady blue eyes flashed briefly with clarity and confusion. “Wh —”

She slid her hand down and joined Jaina’s. The clarity glazed back into desperation.

“Yes,” Jaina moaned, cheeks aflame, hair plastered to her face. “Yes, yes, yes.”

It was a fraction of an instant; a momentary lapse of control that would never be acknowledged as Sylvanas faltered. Her thrusts slowed, to Jaina’s loud and wailing protests, as she rocked back on her thighs to stare.

Sylvanas spanned her hands over Jaina’s hips then, sliding home and keeping in place as Jaina thrashed and arched, thighs trembling and slick around her hips. She bent low and caught an ear between her teeth, setting her fang to it just enough to elicit an eager whine.

“Yes, what?” she demanded, nuzzling her nose into Jaina’s hair. “Yes what?”

Jaina arched her neck eagerly into the touch, presenting the elegant column of her neck that was already mottled and bruising from possessive teeth and lips. “Marry you,” she groaned. “Fuck — keep moving —”

Sylvanas moved with single-minded intent, flesh-on-flesh, overheated and slick and encompassed with far more sensation than she could dare name.

Jaina threw her head back and howled Sylvanas’ name. It was a sound sweeter than any siren song.

By the time she rolled them over onto the drier end of the bed, Jaina was utterly boneless, curled up in her arms and twitching idly as her hands stroked gently over warm, pliant flesh.

Eventually, sluggishly, Jaina nudged her forehead against Sylvanas’ cheek, breath nearly misting from the humidity. “Are you sure?”

“Mm.” Sylvanas squeezed an arm around her. “Are you?”

Jaina bumped against her cheek again, smirking contentedly. “Yes, you big lug. Ask me better next time.”


	18. legacy; rg!sylvanas kid au

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> inspired by tres' dumb twins

“Sylvanas.”

“Mmph.” She snuggled deeper into the blankets, tucking her face into the pillow. The prodding at her shoulder persisted gently.

Jaina’s voice was warm and low with amusement. “Sylvanas, you need to wake up.”

“‘s it a craving?” she mumbled, rolling onto her back sleepily, throwing an arm across her eyes. “I had a long day, sweetheart, sorry. C’n it wait till t’morrow?”

Jaina laughed softly then and Sylvanas twitched at the kiss pressed to her cheek. “It’s not a craving,  _ dalah’surfal _ .” A hand came up to shake her gently on the shoulder again. “I’m in labour.”

Sylvanas hummed, sucking in a heavy breath. “That’s nice, dear.” She sank back into bed for a moment longer. Just as she was settled in comfortably, the muscles in her shoulders locked and her eyes snapped wide open.

“Wait, wh—”

She bolted upright so quickly she almost caught Jaina in the chin with her forehead. “ _ What?! _ ”

Jaina reeled back slightly, reaching out and grasping Sylvanas’ arm to balance herself as she tipped slightly under the weight of her belly. “It’s alright, I’m okay —”

Sylvanas scrambled out of bed, tossing the sheets aside and staggering to her feet, fumbling for her clothes. “How long have you been in labour?! Are you dilated?! Has your water broken??” She yanked on her tunic, one ear bent awkwardly as it caught between the front lacing. “Oh, gods —” She reached down to yank up her breeches, hobbling on one leg as she went. “Where’s your bag?! I need —”

There was a muffled shredding noise as her breeches split down the middle at the seam before she fell forward on her face with a loud thud.

“Sylvanas!” Jaina cried, leaning over the end of the bed worriedly. “Are you alright??”

The tunic appeared upright, a disembodied ear poking through the collar. Sylvanas’ voice came muffled through the fabric as one eye appeared through the front lacing gaps. “We need to call your mother!”

Jaina shook her head fondly, smiling down at Sylvanas despite the slight wince she made as she pushed herself to her feet with effort. “I’m fine,” she soothed, reaching out to help the elf up. She gentled the tunic over Sylvanas’ ears and smoothed it over her wife’s shoulders. “My water hasn’t broken yet. It’s just contractions.”

“We have to go to the healers,” Sylvanas insisted, reaching down to caress the swell of Jaina’s belly worriedly. The swollen globe of her wife’s stomach was usually supple and warm; instead now it was stiff, rippling. Her eyes widened as she stared down at it, stroking her hands anxiously over the top of it. “ _ Anar’alah, Jaina _ . It feels like they’re ready to crawl out of you.”

Jaina gave her a nervous smile. “Will you help me with my slippers? I sent along a little message to my mother before I woke you. She should be on her way here with a healer.”

\--------

Sylvanas could still remember the moment the twins were born. It came to her as fresh as the first kiss of sunlight in the morning; imprinted behind her eyes.

Cradling their small, delicate bodies in her arms and marvelling at the fact that she could see so much of Jaina in their faces. She held in her embrace, not just the legacy of two of the most powerful houses of Azeroth, but proof of the unwavering love that was shared between them. She cooed at them and purred low in her throat, calling to them as their beautiful pointed ears twitched and shuddered at the new noise and their yet-hairless brows lifted in surprise. 

Hearing their first snuffling, shuddering breaths and watching their milky eyes open for the first time. The mincing blink they gave her almost as one — their son and daughter.

Windrunners.

Proudmoores.

Nestled against the plushest pillows money and magic could provide, Jaina watched them with a tired, beaming smile. Her beautiful golden hair loose around her shoulders, sweat-damp from the exertion known only to mothers. Weary and wan, but her freckles were as bright as ever on her face, her brilliant blue eyes glowing.

Sylvanas had never felt so in love.

“They’re beautiful,” she whispered. “Perfect.”

Jaina smiled radiantly at her again. “They’re ours.” 

\------

“They’re  _ mine _ !”

“ _ No,  _ They’re  _ mine _ !”

“Mine’s the one with the anchor!”

“ _ Is not! _ Yours are the ones with the stag and crown!”

“ _ Is not _ !”

“Is too!”

Sighing deeply, Jaina lowered her report with a loud thud onto the table. Before her were her children — the apples of her eye, the heirs of Silvermoon and Kul Tiras combined, the darlings of the capital. Deeply beloved, deeply cherished—

—and deeply infuriating.

“Children, please,” she said sternly, levelling them with a hard glare. “My ears are ringing. Linaria, stop chewing on your brother. Darion — put her  _ down _ .”

Dangling upside down by a leg and mid-throttle by her brother, Linaria Windrunner-Proudmoore —born exactly two minutes older than her twin and endlessly proud of the fact — grumbled. Around her mouthful of said brother’s arm, she said, “He started it.”

“It doesn’t matter who started it,” Jaina sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose tightly. “Just stop it.  _ Darion _ —”

Rolling his eyes and heaving a much put-upon sigh, Darion Windrunner-Proudmoore proceeded to drop Linaria headfirst onto the floor. “You know that the anchor-hilted daggers are mine,” he said hotly, folding his arms. Two minutes younger but two heads taller, he stood at matching height with his minn’da. Short of his freckles, there was precious little Proudmoore blood that came through except for in his personality. 

Staggering to her feet, Linaria glared back at her brother. Squaring her shoulders and thrusting out her chin, she was all Proudmoore with longer ears and brows. “You can’t even use them, you suck at aiming.”

“I am  _ not _ !”

“ _ Do not _ start this again,” Jaina barked, weaving an impatient rune into the air. She snapped her fingers and in the next instant her children were on either ends of the room, facing opposite ends of the wall.

Linaria writhed against the binding rune viciously. “ _ Mum _ !”

“You do realise we’re  _ adults _ , Mum?” Darion huffed, trembling slightly from effort as he braced against the charm. “You can’t just put us in the corner.”

“I can if you’re going to act like children,” Jaina replied testily, rounding the desk and levelling them both with an impatient glare. “What on  _ earth  _ are you arguing about? Anchors? Stags?”

“My good hunting knives,” Linaria said. “Minn’da and I were supposed to go hunting together. Darion took them.”

“I did not,” Darion protested. “Gran gave me the anchor-hilted ones, you  _ know  _ she did.”

Jaina sighed and willed herself to calm. Bad for her blood pressure. Bad for her sanity. “Haven’t I warned you before about keeping your things?” she said, pinching the ridge of her nose.

“I did keep them,” Darion insisted. “Lin stole them.”

“Lies and slander,” Linaria gasped, wriggling until she could face her brother — if only just to stick out her tongue. “I didn’t  _ steal _ , I  _ took it back _ —”

Waving her hand sharply, Jaina shook her head in defeat. “Enough. We’re settling this now.” She marched over to them, grabbing Linaria by the collar before hauling the girl over to Darion to do the same. Grasping both children firmly in hand, she opened a portal and shoved them through before stepping in.

Stepping over the crumpled pile that was her children, Jaina marched towards the figure perched behind the overbearingly large desk in the middle of the room. Gesturing irritably, she said, “Address your children before I teleport them to the Twisting Nether somewhere.”

Sylvanas lowered the parchment in hand slowly, arching a brow. She darted a look behind Jaina at the twins and then back at her wife. Calmly, she asked, “What have they done now?”

Linaria and Darion scrambled upright, shoving each other along the way before turning to their mothers. “Darion took my knives!”

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

Jaina’s eyes flashed and she jabbed a finger behind her as she stared at Sylvanas incredulously. “Listen to them, Sylvanas —”

“Alright, alright,” Sylvanas sighed, raising a hand peaceably. Rising to her feet, she braced both hands on the desk and levelled the twins with a low look. “ _ Dalahn’dorei _ .”

Linaria stiffened at the words, mouth snapping shut in an audible click as she turned to Sylvanas warily. “ _ Minn’da _ .”

“Do you care to explain why you’re squabbling like children?”

Darion pointed at his sister. “Rinn’da took my daggers!”

“I did not!” Linaria sputtered. “Mine are the anchor-hilted ones. You know this, minn’da!”

Sylvanas peered between them, rounding the table to place herself by Jaina’s side. Cocking her hip and leaning it against the edge of the desk, she folded her arms and frowned curiously. Tilting her head, she asked, “And why, as trained rangers, are you misplacing your daggers?”

Darion swallowed, straightening upright slightly. “We didn’t lose them,” he said. “She thinks mine are hers.”

“Because they  _ are _ mine.”

Sylvanas wrinkled her nose slightly. “Didn’t your grandmother give you one of each?”

“No,” Linaria said quickly. “She gave me the anchor ones. Darion the crests.”

Arching a brow, Sylvanas peered at her dubiously. “I distinctly remember her giving you both a matching pair.”

“Linaria…” Jaina sighed.

Linaria darted a look at Darion nervously, giving her mother a sheepish grin when Sylvanas levelled her with an expectant, pointed look. “Uh...maybe?”

“... _ Linaria _ .”

The girl threw up her hands in defense. “Maybe I swapped them before Darion could see, okay?? I liked the anchor ones.”

Darion jabbed a finger at his sister accusingly. “I  _ knew it! _ ”

It was Sylvanas’ turn to huff indignantly. “What's wrong with the royal crest?”

"It's  _ boring _ ,” Linaria whined. “We see it everywhere.” She gestured towards the hanging tapestry behind Sylvanas’ desk in emphasis. “Everything anyone ever gives us has the crest on it. Especially from anyone on the sin’dorei side.”

“The Windrunners represent a legacy of heroes in the history of Silvermoon, darling,” Jaina said patiently. “You can’t run away from your legacy, but that doesn’t mean you have to abide by it. It also doesn’t mean you get to steal from your brother.”

Linaria folded her arms, grumbling quietly. “Stags and crowns are  _ boring _ ,” she reiterated.

“It's your family crest, Linaria. You'll have to see it for a fair bit longer,” Sylvanas replied mildly, gesturing between the two of them. “Now give Darion back his dagger. Fair is fair and your grandmother gave you one of each for a reason.”

Ears swivelling with annoyance, Linaria rolled her eyes petulantly. “Yes, mother.”

Sylvanas waved them away. “Now go before I decide something should be done about this insubordinate behaviour of yours. You’re almost adults and you’re still bickering like children,” she chided them.

“Can’t blame them all that much,” Jaina muttered. “Given how you and your sisters —”

“ _ Go _ ,” Sylvanas said, squinting at Jaina. Linaria and Darion took their leave, snickering slightly behind their hands as they left the room. She watched as they departed, shoving each other as they went.

Sighing, Jaina reached up to pinch at the bridge of her once more. Glaring sidelong at Sylvanas, she said, “This is your doing, you know. This is your genetics at play.”

Sylvanas’ brows lifted high on her forehead. “ _ My  _ genetics? Have you forgotten which of us carried them, my love? The one who refused to believe she was in labour until Linaria was all but crowning?”

“I’m not the one who stubbornly refuses to use anything but her own bow and arrows to hunt, simply because they’re hers and anything else is lesser.”

Sylvanas sniffed haughtily. “We’re each allowed our preferences.”

“Exactly,” Jaina drawled, jerking her head at the door. “Where do you think she got that from?”

They stared at each other for a moment before the Ranger-General broke into a fond grin, chuckling quietly as she drifted closer to Jaina. She slipped her hand along her wife’s waist, pulling them hip-to-hip. Leaning down to press a kiss into her wife’s hair, she said, “They’re absolute devils, but I wouldn’t have them any other way. Or with anybody else.”

Sighing, Jaina leaned into Sylvanas’ embrace, tilting her head up until she could feel the warmth of lips pressing to her cheek. Smiling despite herself, she said, “Well, at least they’re a lot more mature about sharing now. Mostly.”

“I hope you realise that elves mature far differently than humans,” Sylvanas murmured, grinning against Jaina’s cheek. “They’re half-elves, but I’m quite sure they’re still going through puberty.”

Jaina paled slightly with horror. “Gods, how much longer with them like this?”

“Who knows? Half a decade or so, at least.”

“ _ Shit _ .”


	19. getting caught somewhere + ABO

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: 'getting caught somewhere' + ABO

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> someone came into my tumblr and suggested ABO Sylvaina and honestly with my track record I really had no choice but to oblige because my past has come back to haunt me
> 
> The Writer Abides, Man
> 
> OBLIGATORY NSFW WARNING AND ALSO FOR ABO ACTIVITY, PLEASE SKIP IF THIS IS NOT YOUR THING

"You're going to get us caught," Sylvanas grumbled.

Jaina didn't seem to have the sense to care; if the way she was grinding up against Sylvanas was anything to go by. "It'll be quick," she panted, nails digging impatiently into the Warchief's tunic. "Please —"

The desperate keen in her wife's throat and the hungry mouth at her pulse made Sylvanas growl in return. Jaina's heat was one of the rare occasions when instinct could unhinge the omega so intensely. Whether it was because it came at such unpredictable intervals or because of their proximity, she couldn't quite bring herself to care.

"It won't be quick if I knot you," Sylvanas warned, though she licked and nipped along Jaina's neck and scent spot with equal amount of hunger. She walked them backwards into the closest wall, rumbling deep within the caverns of her chest as she hitched her wife's legs around her hips.

Jaina moaned eagerly, grinding into the burgeoning erection tenting the front of Sylvanas' breeches. Wriggling a hand between their bodies, she sought out laces and buckles impatiently, tugging hard enough for leather to creak.

Sylvanas caught Jaina's wrist in her grip and pried the omega's hold away from her breeches to get at the laces herself. She barely made the effort of unbuckling her breeches all the way; only loosened it enough to free her cock. Her hindbrain fussed, seeking the comfort of their private rooms — the familiarity of their nest to care for her omega with as much tenderness as Jaina deserved.

The increasingly frantic keen in Jaina’s throat told her that there was no way she was getting them back to their rooms without some sort of protest.

As if on cue, Jaina yanked at her own skirts with wilful abandon, barely bothering to pull her underclothes aside.

Sylvanas purred deeply with approval at the heady scent of Jaina's arousal, hiking the omega up higher onto her hips. "Look at you," she rumbled, pulling back just enough to admire the deep flush of Jaina's cheeks, the drunken glaze of need in those blue eyes.

"Enough looking," Jaina whined, tugging Sylvanas' head down into her neck. "Start fucking."

She pushed inside Jaina with a hiss. The echo of Jaina's wail was only a vague thought in the back of her mind as she moved them tirelessly against the corridor wall. As much as she desired to prolong their encounter, there was still enough sense in Sylvanas' hindbrain to mind the time.

She ground into Jaina with single-minded effort, coaxing her wife into a trembling release, then another. She could feel the fabric of her breeches clinging to her hips; could hear the wet squelch of their hips joining again and again. 

Jaina's eyes rolled back a third time, a full-bodied tremour wracking her frame as Sylvanas cradled her gently. Her breaths heaved in her chest, streaks of tears and sweat dripping down along the valley of her breasts that the Warchief took great pleasure in chasing.

Leaning her forehead against Jaina's collarbone, worshipping the skin there, she asked, "Is that enough, my omega? Do you need more?" She heaved a greedy breath, savouring the taste of wanton omega in the roof of her mouth. She laved her tongue tenderly over her wife’s neck, taking in more of the intoxicating scent into her mouth.

A sound from further down the corridor made Sylvanas’ ears shoot upright. She froze, turning her head sharply towards the source of the noise.

Jaina stirred from her euphoria briefly, peeling her eyes open wider and turning as well. “I can hide us,” she mumbled, sliding a hand down to grip at the Sylvanas’ ass, urging their hips closer together. “Get inside.”

Sylvanas rocked her hips backwards instead, gritting her teeth as she slipped free of Jaina’s burning heat. It was almost agony to do so, but she palmed her omega’s hips soothingly. She rocked the wet length of her cock against Jaina’s belly, smearing the gleaming wetness over the material between them. Her knot pulsed urgently, aching to push inward and swell to fruition, but she quelled the urge with a mouthful of Jaina’s flesh. “Hide us,” she commanded.

Jaina’s head kicked back, a high, tight groan reverberating in her chest as Sylvanas bit down viciously against her shoulder. Her hands trembled as they wove together a sloppy rune; the air shimmering as an iridescent dome fell over them.

Sylvanas’ ears swivelled for a moment longer, holding fast until the noises gradually faded. Murmuring her approval against Jaina’s shoulder, she dropped her hips and guided her cock back into the snug heat of Jaina’s cunt.

She raked her nails over Jaina's full hips, pinning them in place as she began to move again. Slower, deeper. Hungrier. Driving her wife further into the stone as she pistoned her hips with wild intent. Her knot was growing enough to catch on each glide out, tugging against walls that gripped her so tightly it burned.

“Please,” Jaina mewled, raking dark lines into Sylvanas’ nape. _“Please —”_

Sylvanas let out a strained grunt, lips curled back into a snarl as she hilted in deep. Her knot locked into place, the burgeoning pressure between her hips unravelling as her vision shrank down to a needlepoint. She spilled with abandon, panting against Jaina’s skin as if she had run a thousand miles and swum a hundred oceans.

Jaina made a low whine, rocking her hips insistently still.

She squeezed a hand down between them and sought Jaina’s clit, circling the swollen nub. It wasn’t long before she felt Jaina tense against her, felt the hard ripple of heated flesh tighten around her knot as the omega shuddered and sobbed with release.

_“Ahem.”_

Sylvanas jerked in alarm, pinning herself against Jaina protectively as her head whipped around to glower at the offending figure. 

Lor’themar folded his arms, pointedly staring at the ceiling above them. “If you’re quite finished, my Queen,” he drawled. “The servants were complaining about the noise.”

Her eyes widened slightly at the Regent Lord, turning back to Jaina in bewilderment. “I thought you hid us.”

Jaina twitched in response, moaning groggily as she leaned back against the wall with a drunken grin of contentment. “Oops.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be adding to this here and there in between updates because god has cursed me for my hubris and my work is never finished


End file.
